


A Deer's Hart

by MiloOfTheKey



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aspects of a fix it, Dr. Jane Hart, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, More like not strictly linear, Mostly just the affects of having another person on the team, Original Character(s), nonsequential, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2020-03-07 08:39:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 83,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18869674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiloOfTheKey/pseuds/MiloOfTheKey
Summary: Dr. Jane Hart has been with the BAU from the beginning, far before Emily or Elle and even Reid and Morgan. But despite that, no one seems to know anything about her. Whenever she does something odd, Hotch and Gideon simply trade cryptic glances. But even the best pretenders can't hold against profilers forever, no matter how hard they try.CHAPTERS GET LONGER OVER TIME





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

> This work is one in progress, and one haphazard. My posts get longer as you continue on, and soon will involve specific instances or episodes.
> 
> Jane is my baby, if you don't like her then better leave now: you'll be seeing a lot of her.
> 
> \- Milo Of The Key

“Derek, come here.”

Morgan whips around, tension rising in his shoulders at Jane’s calm, even tone. Perpetually, irritatingly even tone.

It jarrs him, even now, how she sounds just the same when she’s ordering coffee, disecting a bloody corpse, or talking to him in a police interrogation cell. 

But like lightning, the jarred feeling quickly switches to anger, and he has to work to suppress the urge to shove her right back out the door.

“Oh, now you’re here?” He gets out through gritted teeth. “First time I see someone other than Gordinski or his little sidekick - or Hotch and Gideon - and it’s  _ you _ ? What, they send medical examiners in to do interrogations now? Cuz you’ll ‘get me to talk’? What is this, man?”

Jane levels her gaze at him, eyes steady and her overall demeanor completely unaffected by his outburst. She slips off the strap of her satchel and sets is down on the steel table with finality, pulling the stiff metal chair aside as she gestured for him to sit. “Derek. Come here.”

“What, that’s all you’re going to say?” He demands, turning away only to whip back again - completely ignoring the proffered seat. “Don’t you want to start asking me about my personal life? Or do you want to look through my  _ expunged criminal record _ again?”

“Derek. Come here.”

Morgan faces Jane full on for the first time since she walked in, and she meets his eyes. That alone is enough to startle him - pause his anger long enough to take in the fact that Jane was  _ making eye contact _ \- before she averts her gaze again, switching her focus back onto the chair and her satchel.

“Derek.” She repeats.

He sits.

He knows the drill. Has gone over it a thousand times in hundreds of different locales, from police stations to hotel lobbies to the bullpen at Quantico; he doesn’t even need to be prompted at this point. Even in his rage at the absurdity, the horribleness, the unjustness,  _ unfairness _ , of the situation - being profiled by his own colleagues over the murder of a  _ kid _ \- isn’t enough make him deny Jane’s simple request. Not completely.

He offers his wrist.

The tips of Jane’s cool fingers flit over his skin, resting on his pulse just next to his watch. She closes her eyes to count. He sits in silence.

“This isn’t necessary, you know.” Derek reminds her once her eyes open once again, as she removes her fingers. “I am in the same condition you left me in.”

“Except for the lack of sleep, food, water, and increased stress and sympathetic nervous arousal, you mean.” Jane corrects dryly, as usual only showing emotion when one of her ‘patients’ refuses to take care of themselves.

Silence reigns as she watches him carefully, checking his eyes and monitoring his breathing.

“I thought you’d have questions. Everyone seems to,” He finally comments when he can’t stand it any longer, breaking the still air. Jane doesn’t even look up, too busy examining a scrape he got from playing ball with the kids at the Youth Center. 

“I’m not a profiler.”

“I know you’re not,” Morgan corrects himself, irritation rising again. “But you’re still far more experienced than  _ Gordinski  _ out there.”

“Derek,” Jane starts, her gaze resting somewhere above his right eyebrow. “I’m not a profiler. I’m a doctor. I’m your doctor.”

Morgan sits back, watching as Jane begins to unload a water bottle and wrapped sandwich from her bag. He takes them silently, watching as she stood up to leave.

“So that’s it?” He asks incredulously, stung. “You check my blood pressure, make sure I’m not bleeding out anywhere, and you’re gone? Why did you even come in here?”

Jane pauses, glancing back. She considers his words, adjusting her bag.

“What’s my middle name?” She asks, studying him. Gauging him.

Morgan shifts, surprised at the abrupt change in topic. It takes him a moment to even process the question, to answer. “I dunno, you never told me.”

Jane nods, her head bobbing lightly as she studies the one-way mirror like a particularly bloody crime scene. “And my birthday? The first person I ever kissed? My favorite color. How I take my coffee. My allergies. My favorite book.” She shifts, “The secret that I never told anyone, ever, because it changed me so irrevocably that even I can’t figure out where I start and the secret ends.”

His breath catches, and they lock eyes yet again. Her gaze is hard, yes, but understanding - understanding like no one has ever been before. Not about this.

Only the kids that … he,  _ Buford _ … took to his cabin had understood him like this.

Derek didn’t like what that meant about the Doc.

“That’s the thing, Derek.” Jane says, turning her back as her flyaways caught the light. “Sometimes asking questions isn’t the right thing to do.”

She pauses right at the door, hand on the knob.

“I’m here, Derek, as the doctor you need and the friend you might not want. That’s all I can say.”

The door creaks behind her as it shuts him back into the room, alone with pictures of dead children and the words of a doctor and a friend.

And then Gordinski storms his way back in, and the moment is gone as irritation and anger comes back full force the moment the useless detective started running his mouth.


	2. 02

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions

Emily would compare her to a whirlwind, but that was too violent. Too uncontrolled.

She had first met Dr. Jane Hart nearly a full two days after her paperwork was officially accepted by Agent Hotchner, and it wasn’t orthodox by any means. 

They hadn’t had any cases yet, but Agent Jareau - JJ - was showing Emily the ropes, making sure she knew their protocols and who does what and what goes where. Because of that there was no reason to gather as a whole, so everyone was introduced on the fly.

First, JJ. Then their Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia, in her full colorful enthusiasm, quickly followed by a formal introduction to Dr. Reid, who was both walking oxymoron and encyclopedia, it seemed. 

When Emily finally met Dr. Hart, she was just finishing up the rest of her paperwork while sat perched on the edge of her desk.

There was no way to describe her. When the woman first walked in, Emily clocked her immediately and thought that she was a local detective or a consultant of some sort. She was dressed professionally, yes, but not like JJ did or even like Garcia. JJ was formal and clean, designed to look credible and trusting yet still professional and attractive. Garcia was all dresses and heels and color, but everything was of good quality and fashionable, however odd. 

Black long sleeve turtleneck tucked into black belt on black slacks tucked into black boots; thick black hair tied messily up into a haphazard knot on the back of her head. Yet the excess of the pigment wasn’t goth or punk by any means, just dark. 

Excluding her olive skin tone, the only spot of color on her was a suit vest in a dark burgundy - that looked like it had seen far better days - worn over her shirt like an afterthought. Slung across her shoulder was a black satchel and clutched in her hands (covered in black fingerless gloves which exposed her black glossy fingernails) was a clipboard she was rapidly writing on as she wove through the desks and agents expertly, headed their way.

Stopping right in front of Emily.

“This is your medical form.” The woman had stated without prompting or introduction - shoving the clipboard into Emily’s hands before she could even fully put her own paperwork down. Her voice was somehow flatter and less emotional than even Agent Hotchner’s: “You need to fill this out completely before you can enter the field. This -” she continued, reaching over to flip to a later page in the deceptively thick pile, “- is about your mandatory physical evaluation. This must be completed before your first month in our department has been completed. You may either use a doctor of your choice, a Bureau certified medic, or myself. If you choose to use a doctor of your own they must be vetted for quality so you’ll contact me -” reaching over again, pointing out a yellow sticky note “- using the first email address. If not, use the second number or email to schedule an appointment with either me or another doctor of the selection -  _ here _ .”

Stunned and baffled, Emily could only watch as the woman pulled a pen and a pad of paper out of her satchel and scribbled down something before tearing the sheet free and passing it over. “Also on here is where you can submit these forms. Also: any injuries in the field must be checked out, no exceptions. I have the authority to pull you from the field immediately, mid-case if need be, to ensure the health of my patients and colleagues. Any questions can be directed either to me or Agents Hotchner or Gideon. Any pressing?”

Emily gaped unattractively and rather fish-like for a minute there as the woman waited neutrally for her to get her bearings after the onslaught. She gathered herself, glanced down at the clipboard and steno sheet she’d been gripping tightly, and back up at the woman.

“Who are you?” Emily asks (squeaks) once she finds her voice, trying to keep the confusion and surprise out of her voice. She corrects herself rapidly: “I’m sorry, that was rude. But you never introduced herself.”

_ ‘Great job, Emily _ .’ She scolded herself internally.  _ ‘Insult a senior agent or doctor or whoever she is the first time you meet them. _ ’

“Apologies,” The woman stated with no inflection. “Dr. Hart. They call me Jane.”

And then with the same measured control, she turned on her heel and Hurricane Hart left the bullpen.

Emily turned around slowly at the sound of Reid’s poorly contained laughter at her expense - not even realizing that he had been behind her the entire time.

“Oh laugh it up, Reid. Laugh. It. Up.”


	3. 03

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fisher King

The Fisher King hadn’t targeted Jane. 

It had been bothering Hotch for hours. Through Gideon and Elle and poems and book codes and JJ and Morgan being on the road, that one little fact still remained. Incessant. 

Hotch knew that he was distracted, that his brain was desperately trying to scramble for something to hold onto - _anything_ \- to distance himself from Elle bleeding out on an operating room table. His floundering head had latched onto the first thing that it had seen: Jane sitting straight backed in the stiff waiting room chair while Gideon paced restlessly.

_But The Fisher King hadn’t targeted Jane._

“No, he didn’t.” Jane affirmed, and Aaron had realized that he had spoken aloud. He was more tired than he thought.

“Why not?” He finds himself asking the air, not really expecting an answer from the enigmatic woman. He got one anyway.

“I didn’t get anything, but nor did Garcia.” She commented lightly, flipping through the evidence idlily. “Unless you count a system hack - but that doesn’t mean anything. We were both specified in the Unsub’s video.”

“But Garcia doesn’t go out into the field. You do.” Hotch countered, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “If he followed us he would’ve seen you working. Studied you.”

“Yet I only do so to see the dead; to examine blood and corpses and rotting bones.” Jane counters, squinting intently - for her - at the shadow box butterfly. “That doesn’t make me a knight the same way that Garcia isn’t for dragging up information. I’m not the hero here, Aaron.”

The thought made him pause, frozen from his unconscious pacing. “But that’s not all you do.” Hotch dissects, raising a hand before Jane could do anything more than tilt an eyebrow. “No, hear me out. You are the doctor for the team. You’re the only one of your kind attached to a Behavioral Analysis team, and Strauss only allows that because you double as our medical aid and crime scene analyst -  it’s economical. You check over the team and patch up victims just as much as you examine dead bodies and blood splatters. So why wouldn’t you be a ‘knight’?”

Jane pauses, taking his words in. “Information, perhaps,” Jane almost-muses, voice soft and eyes distant. “No one knows about my baseball cards and butterflies and families and vacations. I just don’t have any.”

And with that she gathered up her files, “As fun as this is,” Jane breathes, “Elle should be out of surgery in an hour unless she’s had complications. I’ll be there to talk to her doctor about recovery.”

And Hotch is left alone with his thoughts and a room full of puzzle pieces sent by a delusional killer.


	4. 04

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwolf

“Blackwolf, I’m Agent Gideon. These are Agents Hotchner and Reid.”

Reid waves awkwardly, feeling a little guilty about cutting over the man’s student in class about the gahe. Honest mistake.

“You look like a college professor,” Blackwolf jabs bluntly at Gideon, adjusting his grip on his knife and sheath to attach it to his belt. The Apache man turned to Reid, “And you look like his student.”

Spencer resists scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“You,” Blackwolf nods at Hotch, “You look like FBI.”

Reid tunes out slightly as Hotch and Gideon stand off with Blackwolf, distracted by a flash of black in the corner of his field of vision. He turns, adjusting his glasses as Jane walks up to him, file in hand, completely ignoring the ongoing banter between their Unit Chief and the Apache man. 

“Spinner,” She greets softly, voice level. “Bloodwork came back. No heavy metal or residue. Typical hunting knife without even oil to keep it rust free. Only thing elevated in these kids were their BACs.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Reid can see Blackwolf turn, eyeing Jane up while still trading barbs with Hotch. Surprisingly, the man cuts himself off, ending his sentence abruptly to turn and face Jane and Spencer fully - taking them in. Blackwolf’s eyes pass over Reid again in favor of Jane’s charcoal attire and black leather jacket, resting first on her innocuous yellow scarf and then her face, wiped blank as ever.

“And you are?” He asks, examining her critically.

“Dr. Hart. They call me Jane.” Came Jane’s standard answer.

“You look like a soldier,  _ Jane _ .”

There’s a brief pause as everyone processes the declaration, and out of the corner of his eye Reid sees Hotch and Gideon exchange speaking glances. Jane, as ever, takes it in stride.

“I am no soldier. If anyone here is, I believe you are one.” She counters lowly, ignoring the eyes on her in favor of replacing the files she had shown Reid in her satchel. When her focus comes up again, her gaze is narrowed. “And I feel obligated to remind you we are not at war.”

Blackwolf nods, seemingly approving of Jane’s response. “Well then,  _ Jane _ .” He acknowledges with a nod, an odd emphasis on her name. “It seems that we are at an understanding.  _ We _ -” He stresses, clearing indicating the two of them alone, “- are not at war.”

A truce? Why would one be needed?

Jane nods only once, adjusting her satchel and turning away. “As I said,” she affirms, turning her back and waving a single hand in farewell. She walks away.

Blackwolf watched her go, and we all watch him watch her. Eventually he turns to Hotch, a smirk gracing his features. “You’d best watch out for that one, Agent Hotchner.” Blackwolf says dryly, eyeing the Unit Chief with amusement. “You can see it in her tred. Her stride. That is a woman who you will never tie down. Your government best let her choose her own way, lest she decides that she favors the just over the lawful.”

Reid swallows unconsciously, turning to catch a last glimpse of black before Jane drives away.


	5. 05

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't undermine me again, Aaron."

Jane knew that the day was going to be rough from the moment that Aaron walked into the bullpen with bags under his eyes the size of Texas.

Their workload was light, comparatively, but the backlash from Gitmo and the closely diverted terrorist attack was still fresh in everyone’s minds. The clearance confirmations, the files, the NDAs to sign - Jane may not have been a profiler … But she’d seen the tension in Hotch’s shoulders when he learned that it was the USA mall being targeted. Overheard Morgan quietly telling Gideon about Haley and Jack, once the the Gitmo group had landed back in Quantico again. It was obvious that fear like that wouldn’t leave simply because the threat had - temporarily - passed.

Hotch’s call to enter is quiet when she knocks, his exhaustion shining through his voice and tone.

She opens the door quietly and just stands there a moment, watching. Hotch watches her right back; the two of them sizing each other up as profiler and doctor and friend. It is Aaron who moves first, nodding to the chair opposite his desk, pushing aside folders and stacks of papers. 

Jane sits down plainly, and Aaron holds out his wrist.

She finds his pulse.

Jane would never be able to properly vocalize why she greets her colleague and friend this way. Why she  _ always  _ greets Aaron this way. If she really wanted to know, to ask, she was sure one of the many profilers on the team she was imbedded in - part of, really - would give her a laundry list. A compulsion to check the wellbeing of those around her, a paranoia of damage beyond her control and ability to treat, social anxiety and discomfort manifesting through a comfortable and familiar form of interaction, et cetera et cetera.

Personally, Jane thought that she just wanted to make sure her patients hadn’t managed to break themselves since she’d seen them last. Hotch’s pulse, after all, was threadier than usual - though by no means harmful in the short term. But sleep deprivation and stress is healthy for no one and it’s good to monitor the effects it has on the Unit Chief now in a more controlled setting rather than in the field.

At least that’s what she tells herself.

Aaron graciously allows her to finish her checks before speaking, watching her settle back with the clear intention of staying for a while. Jane’s determination is clear: she’s not moving until Hotch opens his mouth, and Hotch, someone as well versed in her body language both as a profiler and a friend, can read that easily.

“I really am fine,” Aaron insists rather dryly, though resigned. “You checked me and Morgan both over, from the barn explosion and the altercation at the mall.”

“I’m not the help you need,” Is her reply, averting her gaze in favor of eyeing Hotch’s paperwork. “My kind of help isn’t what you need. That’s not why I’m here.”

Hotch chuckles despite himself, relaxing back into his office chair a bit to take her in better, rolling his shoulders absentmindedly to get the cricks out of them. “So what can I help you with?” He asks with hidden amusement. “Not satisfied with Agent Prentiss?” he asks, only half joking.

Jane hopes that her silence doesn’t give her away too much.

Aaron sighs as he realizes, a hand coming up to pinch the brim of his nose and slide up to massage the stress away from between his eyebrows. “You know I didn’t accept that transfer,” He reminds her, voice low. “You know that Gideon didn’t either. Neither of us would have done so without telling the team, and I  _ definitely  _ would not have allowed her to even walk into the bullpen until you had copies of all of her files and been prepared for her. We know each other better than that.”

She shifts in her seat, looking through Hotch’s office windows to see the newest member, eyes narrowing reflexively.

“Elle didn’t listen to me,” she finally contributes, voice flat. “I told her more than four months. I told her five, with PT and psych evals and therapy. You countered me, you let her into the field before I could stop you. And then she was out and you didn’t pull her back in.”

A pause.

“She had already completed a case without complication. Pulling her out would’ve distanced her from the team.”

Jane sneers, the expression foreign on her features. “Distanced her?” she nearly scoffs, a tightness rising in her chest. “She needed distance. I’d say she shot that rapist in cold blood, but she was clearly boiling over. Nothing cold about that.”

Silence saturated the air.

“Don’t undermine me again, Aaron,” Jane commands finally, turning to face him again. “I let you have your say and now we’re here. This is a professional courtesy, Hotchner, or have you forgotten?”

Hotch shakes his head, face deliberately blank.

“You wanted me on your team. You heard my conditions, and you agreed to them,” she reminds him icily as she stands up, angled toward the door. “You wanted me like a bug in a jar, but I have override authority over the entire team, you included. Don’t make me use it.”

The door echoes loudly as she shuts it.


	6. 06

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank

Jane was checking the sheriff over again, silently and carefully, when Hotch got Gideon’s call, telling him that he’d found the bus worth of children in the middle of the Nevada desert. Giving the sheriff’s arm one last squeeze, she strides purposefully after Hotch and into the car, snagging her satchel from the ground as she went.

Hotch says nothing as she clambered into shotgun, only levels his gaze grimmly at her and started the car, shifting out of park. If the rental car had sirens, she was sure, Aaron would be blaring them and speeding full force into the night. But there were no sirens, and as they plunged into the wilderness she knew that the both of them had a severe sense of  _ not fast enough _ that was tugging them forcefully forward, dread building in the pits of their stomachs.

And it was  _ not fast enough _ that they arrived where Gideon directed them, throwing the car into park with more force than strictly necessary. As they clambered out of the car, Jane’s eyes were drawn immediately to the shadowed figure of Gideon on the crest of the small ridge they were parked beneath. 

Hotch and Gideon start talking about Frank, where he went and when he left, but Jane only had eyes for the huddled crowd of small, cold figures in the penumbra of the boulders. She rushes past Gideon without so much as a by-your-leave, and she knows that the profilers won’t begrudge her that. She’s not here for the living and healthy, serial killers or not. The children half frozen with exposure are her responsibility.

“Hey there,” she calls softly to the children, deliberately shifting her default expression to something kinder, more trustworthy. “My name is Jane. I’m here to help you get home to your mommies and daddies, is that okay?”

The scramble of excited and tired bodies and voices drowns out the disgust for Frank that had been building in her gut since seeing wind chimes made of human bone. Since Gideon asked her to check whether the limbless torso abandoned in the Nevada desert had cauterized main arteries or not. Since JJ first handed her the stack of files full of people forgotten by the very country they lived in, the people they were a part of.

Sometimes the smiles of relief and the tears of exhausted joy are what make it all okay. All worth it in the end.

Or at least she can pretend it’s enough.


	7. 07

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, someone’s gotta be the designated driver. Might as well be the one with the medical degree, yeah?”

It was Morgan and Emily who proposed going out for drinks, but it was Garcia who convinced Reid to come, and it was Reid who convinced Jane to come. Somehow.

That alone shocked the team enough that even JJ and Aaron took a break from their workload, and Rossi from his writing, to join them at some old roadhouse style bar in the city. It was homey rather than rundown, luckily, and had enough people to feel lively but not so much that it was claustrophobic. Oddly enough, apparently also the type of place that Jane frequents herself, as she demonstrated that by grabbing the drinks right off and chatting with the bartender with easy familiarity.

The BAU team settles in the back, hypervigilance and too many years around murderers and psychopaths forcing them to sit with their backs to the wall and clear lines of sight to all of the entrances and exits. Reid and Garcia immediately launch into some highly technical discussion the rest don’t even try and follow, while JJ challenges Morgan to a round of darts and Hotch, Rossi, and Emily settle back, eyes on the room and their enigmatic doctor. 

“She’s comfortable here,” Emily comments, falling into her rather rude habit of profiling her colleagues. “Posture with the bartender is familiar, but not overly intimate or personal. She’s seen him and talked to him but most likely neither have exchanged information past orders and small talk.”

“Emily -” Rossi starts warningly, a rebuke clearly on it’s way.

“Dave, let her,” Aaron cuts off, sending an indecipherable look his way. Dave kept his silence.

“Also,” Emily continues on, mostly seeming to miss the exchange - though Reid and Garcia caught it - with her eyes still locked on their medic. “She’s far more relaxed here. It doesn’t show in her expression much, but whenever she’s outside the Bureau or government buildings across the country she’s far more relaxed. Even at dump sites!”

She turns to face the table fully, noticing everyone’s eyes on her but plowing ahead anyway. “Think about it. She’s not completely frigid and emotionless, but that’s how she presents herself within the FBI and around other LEOs. We’re the exception, but she doesn’t even really see us as agents, only as patients she’s tasked to take care of. She only started to warm up to me and lower her mask after she stitched my forehead up -”

She cuts herself off, looking at her tablemates, “What?”

“Actually,” Jane’s voice rang from behind her, voice amused. “I started to warm up to you after you came to me about your possible strained elbow rather than forcing me to first observe it and then pin you down for treatment.”

Emily clears her throat awkwardly, covering it up by pushing Garcia’s purse aside so Jane could put down the tray. “Ah,” she starts, choppy and apologetic. “Um, well, I didn’t mean -”

“You’re fine, Prentiss,” Jane cuts her off, pulling out a chair and sitting in one fluid movement. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Still -” Emily continued.

“Didn’t know what ya’ll drink,” Jane cut her off again, turning to the table at large. “But I’ve been stuck with most of you for years at this point so I made my best guesses.

“Whiskey on the rocks for Hotch and scotch for Rossi, beers on tap for Morgan and Prentiss, G&T for JJ, and Chocolate Martini for Garcia and Spinner. Anyone crying?”

JJ and Morgan, who had wandered over during Emily’s slip, eagerly grabbed their drinks and went back to their round, bickering lightly as they went. Prentiss shyly grabs and sips her beer, pretending to listen to Reid and Garcia, who thanked Jane profusely, as they return to their debate on Daleks v.s. The Silence. 

“What did you get for yourself?” Rossi asks curiously, swirling his glass absentmindedly.

“Water,” she answered shortly, grinning at the surprised glances. “Hey, someone’s gotta be the designated driver. Might as well be the one with the medical degree, yeah?”

Aaron hid his grin behind the rim of his glass.

“So,” JJ cuts in after a few minutes of quiet people watching, still grinning from her victory over Morgan. “What do we do now? I’ve already humiliated Morgan at darts!”

“Hey!”

“What do normal people going out to drink with their coworkers do?” volleys back Spencer, looking and no doubt feeling out of his depth. “Just talk?”

“Nah, Pretty Boy,” Morgan snorts, pulling from his beer appreciatively. “They play drinking games.”

“Now that.” Rossi interjects playfully, “Is not going to happen.”

“Oh, come on, sir!” Garcia complains, jogging him with her elbow. “We can  _ bond _ . It’ll be fun!”

“Drop the ‘sir.’ Garcia,” Rossi rebukes dryly. “We’re not at work. And fine, but only if there’s no ‘truth-or-dare’. I had enough of that in the Corps.”

Garcia pumps her fist in victory as JJ and Morgan settle into their seats, drinks in hand. 

“So what are we doing then?” Aaron asks amicably. “Other than truth-or-dare.”

“Never Have I Ever,” Morgan suggests promptly, smiling at Emily’s groan. “Oh come on, Prentiss! It’s just a game!”

“A game that can quickly go somewhere either supremely dark or uncomfortably sexual,” Prentiss reminds him warningly. “And I’d like to look my bosses in the eye within the next month, thank you.”

“I’ve already got most of the dirt on you, honey bear,” Garcia says with a menacing grin. “And Janey over here has your medical files. If you’re really stressed, we can confirm things for the group so you don’t have to say the dirty deets, HIPAA be damned.”

Emily groans, and Morgan laughs at her discomfort. “C’mon, Prentiss,” he cajoled lightly. “You can veto anything too much. Anyone can.”

“Pen, we all know you’re just gonna target people based off the dirt you’ve no doubt picked up over the years,” JJ points out, grinning. “Wouldn’t be fair for the rest of us.”

“Okay, ground rules:” Hotch cuts in, “No using prior knowledge to a ridiculous extent. Nothing too dark or too inappropriate. Veto rights, but used sparingly. The losing number is ten points - first to it pays for the round. Anything else?”

“Elaboration isn’t mandatory, but can be encouraged,” Jane suggests. “Fine other than that.”

“Okay!” Penelope grins, clasping her hand excitedly. “I go first! Never have I ever been married!”

“That isn’t even a real one,” Dave complains, holding up a single finger. He turns to Hotch, also with a finger up. “That can’t count, right?”

“Hey, I’m just getting the ball rolling!” Penelope assures them. “I’ve got better ones to come. But you two have got all kinds of advantages on poor Jayje and Janey and I. Profilers have an annoying tendency to cheat.”

“I’ll follow that up then,” JJ interjects, “With a ‘Never have I ever been a profiler.”

“Hey, you skipped Reid!” Morgan protests, obviously trying to put off the inevitable. “Wait your turn, Blondie.”

“Fine, but Spence - go!”

“Never have I ever been over the age of 30,” Spencer adds with a grin. Reluctantly, Hotch, Morgan, Emily, and Rossi put fingers up. 

“Ha ha!” Garcia practically crows, JJ grinning near her. “29 suckahs!”

“Wait, are we not going to address the fact that somehow Doc Hart over here isn’t 30 yet?” Morgan injects, glancing appraisingly at the brunette. “How’d you manage all those years of medical school and then the Academy? You’ve been here for years! What are you, Reid 2.0?”

“Well I should hope not,” Jane comments dryly, spinning the ice in her glass absently with a finger. “I don’t think the world would survive having two of him. They might just decide to take over.”

Reid looks minorly embarrassed by the laughs that gained. 

“JJ, I guess you’re up?” Jane reminds.

“Never have I ever been a profiler,” the Media Liaison repeats dutifully.

“Damnit Jayje,” Morgan complains again.

“You got one Emily?” JJ asks, completely ignoring the pouting Chicago native.

“Gimmie a sec,” Prentiss muses, thinking intently. “I need a good one.”

“Are we putting in a time limit?” Jane asks dryly. “Cuz I am not sitting forever every time. 

“Under a minute,” Dave proposes reasonably, hiding a grin. “I don’t want to sit here forever either.”

“Never have I ever …” Emily starts, trailing off a bit. “Umm. Never have I ever been a man.”

“These all seem rather targeted,” Aaron comments dryly, eyebrows raised. “If you wanted a pay raise, you guys, you just had to say it.”

“Sorry!” Emily blushes. “I only had a minute.”

“Puh-leese, angel fish, you had the entire time it took for us to decide on the game  _ and _ the rounds up until now. No excuses.”

“Never have I ever kissed a man,” was Morgan’s, laughing. “C’mon, ladies. All of you were untouched!”

 Garcia, Emily, and JJ all put a finger up - and it was almost missed in the staring contest Jane and Morgan were having when her hands stayed perfectly still that Rossi and Reid also stuck one up each. Almost.

“Wait, Rossi?  _ Reid? _ ” Emily exclaims, disbelieving. “When?  _ Who? _ ”

“You do a lot of things overseas during war,” Rossi replied cryptically, swirling his glass dramatically. “You do even more once you get back.”

Aaron fails to hide his snort.

“And you?” Morgan asks, tearing his eyes away from Jane. “Who’s the lucky boy, Pretty Boy?”

“Ummm,” Reid hedges, uncomfortable. “Do I have to answer that?”

“No you don’t,” Jane interjects firmly, eyes on Morgan still. “Let it be. He put a finger up.”

“But you didn’t,” Morgan comments, tilting his head. “Rossi and Reid but not Jane. Huh.”

“I don’t have a single memory of ever kissing a man,” Jane states flatly.

“Cryptic,” Reid mutters, eyeing her over the rim of his martini.

“Never have I ever had an allergy,” Jane states, a ghost of a grin on her face.

“Hey, no prior knowledge!” Reid complains, eyebrows scrunched. “That’s not fair.”

“You don’t need prior, specific knowledge to know there are allergies on this team,” Dave refutes. “Plus, it’s neither everyone nor one person. Think it counts.”

“Fine,” Spencer grumbles, putting a finger up. “Stupid pineapple.”

“You’re allergic to  _ pineapple?” _ Garcia asks incredulously. “How is that even possible?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Reid asks, ears reddening, gesturing at her second raised finger. “You’re allergic to cashews!”

“And I’m allergic to dogs,” Emily points out. “Allergies don’t make sense.”

“I’m just allergic,” Dave says dryly. “The seasons hate me. Sue me.”

“Ha ha, you’re bodies tell you to evict foreign bodies when they’re not explicitly harmful to your health,” Jane gloats in a deapan. “Ha. Ha.”

“Never have I ever been to England,” Rossi says. “Or Britain. Or Great Britain. Or the UK, or whatever it’s really called - I can’t keep track of that.”

“Actually -” Reid starts, before JJ sticks a hand over his mouth. 

“That’s who - Emily and Hotch?” She asks, stemming the flow before it could gain momentum.

“Nah, that’s me too,” Garcia adds. “Had to see Big Ben and the Eye, even if only once.”

“Ammhnmhn,” Reid adds, wagging a finger.

“Whoo~!” Emily cheers jokingly. “London!”

“Never have I ever had a doctorate,” Hotch contributes before Emily can start singing  _ God Save the Queen. _ “Sorry Reid, but Jane’s been untouched up until now.”

“I get it,” Reid assures, “Even though you could’ve said ‘Never have I ever been a woman,’ or something. That way you could’ve gotten JJ too.”

“What was that about targeting?” Jane asked.

“Says the chick who said allergies,” Morgan grins.

“Hush you,” Jane snipes. “Garcia’s up.”

“Hold up,” Garcia protests, scanning the table. “I’ve got 3 and so does Morgan and Hotch has 4. JJ and Jane are at 1. Emily’s at 5, Rossi and Reid are losing epicly at 6. Is that right?”

“Sounds it, Baby Girl,” Morgan affirms, eyebrows cocked. “Now are you gonna go or -?”

“Patience is a virtue, Sugar Lips,” Garcia grins evilly. “One you clearly don’t have. Never have I ever gotten a tattoo.”

Morgan groans, and sticks a finger up. Emily and Rossi follow more hesitantly, both grumbling as well, while Jane simply shrugs and sticks up a second finger.

“Okay, spill,” JJ demands, eyes on them. “I’ve seen Morgan’s - everyone has - but what have you two got?”

“You all remember that I was a Marine, yes?” Rossi drawls. “Everyone back then got ink, and I don’t regret it. And no, I’m not showing you.”

“Not telling, but I’ve got two,” Emily comments, smirking. “Jane said we didn’t have to elaborate.”

“Jane?” Hotch asks, voice casual. “What about you?”

“I put a finger up, didn’t I?” Jane asks sardonically. 

“Aww, lighten up Doc!” Morgan cajoles. “It’s just a question. How many have you got? Three? Four?”

“Define what a single tattoo counts as,” Jane relents, tugging at her red scarf. “Because I can’t answer that simply.”

“What do you mean you ‘can’t answer that simply?” Rossi asks, eyebrows raised. “How crazy is your ink?”

“How about a single tattoo is an image or a group of images that hold one connected space,” Reid suggests reasonably. “If they’re not connected as a single unit, they’re different.”

“Okay then,” Jane shrugs again. “I have one tattoo.”

“Where?” Emily questions, “You only ever show your face and the tips of your fingers. I can’t even guess.”

“Across my back,” Jane admits. “Upper, over my shoulders, and curling around my ribs and upper arms.”

“That’s  _ so cool _ ,” Garcia squeals, excited. “What is it? When did you get it?”

“Spinner, you’re up,” the doctor redirects shamelessly.

“Never have I ever had surgery,” the genius contributes, moving it all along. “Dental, major, or otherwise.”

“Well I got  _ shot _ ,” Garcia says, “And so have most of the people here.”

“That’s me, Garcia, Hotch, Rossi, and Morgan out, I’d say.” Emily admits, “Jane, I missing anyone?”

“JJ got her wisdom teeth out when she was 19, and I’ve got the scars as proof myself.”

“For what?” Hotch asks, eyes narrowing. “From before joining the team?”

“Yes,” Jane said shortly. “And after.”

“Rossi has eight! He’s almost there!” JJ cuts through the tension. “Emily, do you and I completely destroy him or allow him to live another day?”

“Destroy!” Morgan bellows. “End him!”

“Ey - don’t you be pulling any of that on me, you two!” Rossi objects, setting his glass down with a thump. “I’ve got seniority here.”

“Only if you count non-consecutive years, old man.” Jane snorts.

“Oi!” Rossi jabs a finger.

“Hush you,” Jane rolls her eyes.

“Are you sure that water isn’t actually alcoholic, Jane?” Hotch laughs out, startled. “I’m liking this side of you.”

“Only outside the office, Aaron,” Jane smirks. “Take it where you can get it.”

One phone rings. And then two. JJ answers hers first, Hotch following quickly after.

“Rossi, I suggest you take the loss and go pay our tab,” Jane suggests lowly. “Looks to me that we’re out of time.”


	8. 08

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Help,” Gideon waves his hands, wildly articulating. “Help is not your problem, Jane. It’s never been your problem. Your problem is when you’re not getting the help.”

“Thought you’d still be here.”

Jane turns from her charts, craning her neck around to see Gideon darkening her doorway. She half smiles wryly, eyebrow twitching. “Dunno what you expect, Jason.” She drawls. “But doctors tends to have a couple things on their plates. Charts, for one.”

“‘Jason’,” he repeats, a distant look on his face. “You know, you only ever call me Jason when we’re alone. You even sometimes call Hotch ‘Aaron’ when other people are around, but never with me. And that hat is ridiculous.”

“Garcia gave it to me. Keeps the hair out of my face.”

“Give it back to her. Or burn it,” He suggests with finality. “Better to have hair in your face then that much neon green.”

“Says the man going bald,” Jane volleys back. “And, seriously? A friendly interrogation at 9 o’clock at night,  _ Jason?” _

At his careless shrug, she just plows on, figuring it best to just answer his question and move on. “It’s because Aaron is the Unit Chief, not the big name. Different.”

“And what do you mean by that?” he continues, plowing ahead. “You don’t care about titles, positions. Fame, fortune. That has never mattered to you.”

He shakes his head, dragging out her guest chair and flopping down into it. “You and I, we’re friends, Jane,” He reminds her. “I was one of your first here. And not like Reid and I are friends, like Hotch and I are. Like you and Hotch are.”

“You were - and are - Reid’s mentor, Jason.” Jane corrects, shuffling her papers. “You’ve never been that to me. Even Aaron sees you as a senior agent just as much, if not more, than he sees you as a friend.”

“But we’ve never had that kind of relationship,” He finishes for her.

She lets him mull it over, knowing he’ll think himself out at some point.

“Why are we friends?” He queries as she sets her pen down to grab another file, stilling her.

“Is this a breakup, Jay?” she jokes, tossing out her seldom used nickname for him. “Cuz don’t spare my feelings. Lay it down on me. It isn’t me, it’s you.”

“Nah, nah,” he chuckles, eyes on her. “But you have to agree it’s an unorthodox relationship, you and I have. You’re young enough to be my daughter.”

“Not granddaughter, Jay?” She pokes, laughing as he blanches the slightest bit. “I’m joking. But age doesn’t matter. In terms of maturity, you and I and Hotch all have the same eyes.”

“Eyes that have seen the world and seen the world burn,” Gideon elaborates knowingly, nodding. “But you’re too young for eyes like that. Morgan doesn’t have eyes like that.”

“Jason,” Jane shakes her head. “Even with what Morgan has gone through, he isn’t like us, not yet. And hopefully not ever. It’s different for us: you and I both hold scars that stories or words…  cannot explain. And we both hide them, else the world decide us too broken to be of any use anymore.”

“Is it wrong?” he asks, elaborating as she hums in confusion. “Wrong that you and I hide ourselves behind work and pretty words and personas. Does that make us wrong? Liars, like the people out there we chase?”

“I hope not,” Jane replies after a minute, eyes distant. “Because if that’s the case, then we become more like the people who scar then the ones bearing them. And then being broken is the least of our problems.”

* * *

 

“Who uses arrows these days?”

JJ turns away from the puncture wounds on the briefing screen to face Jane as she walks in the door, tugging at a lime green baseball cap as she goes. The rest of the team is either scrutinizing the files or the doctor herself - specifically her questionable hat.

“Arrows, Jane?” Gideon asks when it’s clear that the woman isn’t going to elaborate. At her distracted, yet affirmative, hum he continues, “We hadn’t determined a cause of these punctures yet. They were thinking some kind of bullet over in Idaho.”

She glances up at the room, face surprised. “What, with that little bruising and that clean of a hole? It looks like it’s ballistic because arrows can have the force of a gun behind ‘em with the right draw weight. And for this, I’d say compound bow or longbow; most likely compound as it has the oomph this demonstrates and is a lot more common these days, especially with hunters.”

Hotch nods, taking it all in. “Well then, would you be able to determine the types of arrows used based off the wounds?”

“Should be,” Jane agrees, stealing Reid’s case file. “But I’d say that you’d want to narrow down your pool first. It might be easier to identify the Unsub by a profile with the help of their weapons rather than by their weapons with the help of a profile.”

“Do it anyway.” Hotch orders, “Garcia, start looking for any missing person reports matching our victims and any of the victim’s cars, anything you can find. Wheels up in 30.”

* * *

 

“Yeah, Garcia?” Jane answers as she picks up the phone, eyes still locked on the autopsy reports. “You need something?”

“You missed Girls Night!” the Tech Analyst whines.

“Penny, it sounds like the three of you didn’t even  _ have  _ much of a Girl’s Night before you got called in.”

“That’s not the point!” Garcia protests, pouting. “You are finally starting to lighten up after all this time and you call me Penny sometimes and you’re even wearing the hat I got you and we  _ always _ invite you but this is the first time I thought you might actually  _ show _ . You said you would.”

“No, I didn’t.” Jane corrects, rummaging through her satchel for a pen, but eventually just stole one from a distracted Reid. “I said that I would think about it. And of course I wore the hat, I always wear the things you get me. Even  _ if _ they’re absurdly colorful.”

“And did you think about it?”

“Yes, I thought the word ‘no’,” Jane drawls. “Very loudly.”

“Ugh, you missed it!” Garcia steamrolled. “Emily brought this guy to our table that was trying to pick her up by saying he was FBI, and we asked to see his badge but when he didn’t have it we showed him ours and it was  _ awesome _ and you totally missed it and I hate you!” She rushes out.

“Penny,” Jane sighed. “Breathe. And I need to finish this up before we land. Go bother LeFey, wouldya?”

“I still hate you!” Garcia repeats, “Even if you cater to my whims by including the color I give you to wear in your pitch black wardrobe and you make sure my babies are safe and I kinda like that nickname you have for my Chocolate God that annoys him so much - but I still hate you!”

And the phone clicks as the hacker hung up on her, dial tone sounding. Jane squints at the phone warily.

“Garcia?” Hotch asks from across the table. 

“Garcia,” Jane confirms, turning back to her work.

* * *

 

“I am not a mountaineer nor am I a hunter, Jay.” Jane comments casually as they browse the arrow selections idily. “And I already estimated length and probable composite for our arrows. Why am I here?”

“You ever been camping, Jane?” Gideon asks, fingers trailing over a compound bow’s cords. “Or been in the wilderness much.”

“A little,” she answers automatically, then blinks at her own response. “Huh. A little.”

“I’ll add it to the Book for you.”

“Thanks,” she replies, lips twitching.

“But that’s not why you’re here,” he elaborates, throwing a lightning quick and lopsided grin her way. 

“Thought not. You going to tell me why, or am I guessing?”

“I’m worried about you,” he says, turning. “Hankel affected the whole team, but you were the one stuck with him, not us.”

“I’m seeing a psychiatrist the recommended amount for my experienced trauma,” she reasons sardonically. “And have given her free reign to increase sessions if need be. I’m not afraid to get help, Jay.”

“Help,” Gideon waves his hands, wildly articulating. “Help is not your problem, Jane. It’s never been your problem. Your problem is when you’re not getting the help.”

“Meaning?” 

“The ladies had Girl’s Night,” Gideon reasons, somehow knowing everything as per usual. “You didn’t go. You were in the office talking with me and doing charts. That worries me, it’s not healthy.”

“Great. So me  _ not  _ wanting to go out drinking is impeding my recovery?” she snorts. “Good thing you left the book writing to Rossi and the doctoring to me, Jason.”

“You like drinking, Jane.” Jason reminds her, voice reasonable and compelling. “You made friends in the city that you go partying with. It would be supremely dangerous and irresponsible to anyone an eighth as careful as you are, so you’ve had no reason to stop. So why have you?”

“You hate my partying, Gideon.” Jane states, dryly reminding him. “You keep telling me to quit before I get hurt.”

“I want you to stop on your own terms, when you realize that the people we chase are going to target you, Jane.” Gideon clarifies, voice soft. “Not because someone hurt you so much you can’t even reap joy from your little pleasures.”

* * *

 

“You’ve been in the woods before?” Ranger Evans asks, eyes on the newest additions to their search party.

“A little,” Jane replies distractedly. “Up in Vermont near the- is that a black bear?”

Morgan and Emily turn to face the lumbering creature off to their far right passing through a pine needle covered clearing. “Oh come on,” Morgan groans, irritated. “We’ve been trying to train our senses for the better part of a day now to notice things like that, and you catch on within your first hour of properly being on the mountain?”

“Must’ve been some place in Vermont,” Prentiss comments. “I was up in the Alps in France for weeks at a time when I was younger and I can’t pick up more than the rare bird.”

“Vermont?” Jane repeats confused, turning towards her fellow agent. “Who said anything about Vermont?”

The group stops, all looking with confusion at Jane, who mirrors it right back. All except Gideon, who waves his hand dismissively. “Ah don’t worry about it. We better move on; we’ve still got ground to cover.”

Jane blinks at him, and then the others, before shrugging and continuing on the beaten path.

* * *

 

“Food,” Emily breathes exhaustedly, breathing in the smell of the Mom and Pop restaurant. “I can’t wait to dig in.”

The seven of them settle down around two pushed together tables, sharing menus and case files alike. Morgan decides quickly on some good old fashioned angus beef, closing his menu and taking in the team. And, because his gaze is up, he watches Gideon lean over to Hotch and whisper something in the Unit Chief’s ear, getting handed a leatherbound notebook in response that he quickly begins to scribble some kind of entry in.

“That’s the Black Book,” Reid informs him in a low, conspiratorial voice, noticing his eyeline. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it yet. The two of them keep it on the down low, but each of them adds on average two to three entries a week, with obvious variation, since before I’ve been on the team.”

“What, a Black Book?” Emily asks from Morgan’s other side, incredulous. “Like a hit list?”

“No,” Reid corrects, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. I think it’s an ongoing profile.”

“Profile of who?” Emily wonders. “Or what?”

“It could be more than one person,” Morgan suggests. “That is one awfully thick notebook for only one unsub.”

“Actually it’s not that large,” Reid starts to lecture. “I estimate it’s between 300 and 400 pages, and -”

“Oi, Pretty Boy, cool it,” Morgan cuts him off. “Anyway, if it’s a profile, or notes or something, what would they be taking it on? If it’s pertinent to the case they would’ve shared it with us.”

“So it’s not case related,” Emily expounds. “What happened today, unrelated to the case, that Gideon would’ve wanted to take notes about?”

“He was with Jane all day, should we ask her?” Reid queries, unsure.

“Jane,” Morgan suddenly realizes, eyes on where the doctor chatting with Hotch. “Jane was distracted earlier today, in the park, and said that she used to spend time in the woods in Vermont. When Emily asked about it, she didn’t even seem to know what we were talking about.”

“And then Gideon brushed it off,” Emily realizes. “Like it didn’t even matter. Like he didn’t want her to know about her, what, slip up? Confusion?”

“Mistake?” Reid offers.

“Wait, so does that mean that the profile is of Jane?” Emily asks, confused. “She’s a member of this team, isn’t she? Why would she need a profile?”

“Well, yes.” Morgan confirms, though he doesn’t sound convinced, “Even if she’s rather hard to read. And she doesn’t interact too much with us as a whole.”

“She’s hard enough to read that even Gideon and Hotch need a profile to get her.” Reid jokes, “We don’t stand a chance.”

* * *

 

“This is Agent Morgan, go for Agent Gideon,” Morgan’s voice sounds from the radio, a touch of static muddling his words.

Jane nabs the offered radio from Evans and starts to walk over to Gideon with it. “LeFey, this is Jane. I’m on my way to Gideon now.”

“We followed the tracks for several miles,” Morgan continues, ignoring the nickname. “And now we can see something in the distance. Can the two of you get to higher ground?”

Jane and Gideon lock eyes, and they bound (or at least Jane does) up the slope until they had a clear view of the wilderness, Ranger Evans hot on their heels.

“See it?” Morgan sounds again.

Gideon takes the radio from Jane: “Smoke,” he confirms. 

“Smoke means fire, fire means people, people means unsubs or possible victims,” Jane reasons, already turning toward where the truck is parked.

* * *

 

“Do you see the fire?” Evans asks, “It’s right through those trees.”

“There’s a man lying next to it,” Gideon comments, immediately sticking an arm out to block Jane from rushing forward. “We don’t know who that is, Jane.”

“He is covered in blood, Gideon,” Jane grits out in protest. “Pull out your guns and flash your badges all you want, but I took an Oath. I refuse to break it.”

“Prentiss, watch Jane’s back,” Gideon orders. “Let’s move in.”

They rush forward, and Jane immediately starts to work on the man, hushing him as he whimpers.

“Hey, hey,” She comforts lowly, pulling bandages and gauze and tape from her bag. “I’m a doctor, and I just want to look at your wounds. To patch you right up, is that okay?”

The man nods shakily, choking on the blood bubbling up in his throat. 

“My name’s Jason Gideon,” the senior profiler introduces himself, crouching down as she gets to work. “We’re going to get you out of here, okay? Are you here alone?”

The man points, and Jane waves her friend away as she begins to prop up the man’s legs.

* * *

 

“ _ Emelia, tenemos una problema, _ ” Jane calls out as Emily, Gideon, and Morgan all regroup near her. “ _ El hombre no tiene una herida de flecha. El sangre y la lesión no son consistente con una. Lo es muchos más probable que él ha sido apuñalado, dos o tres tiempos. Con una naja. _ ”

“Wait, what did she say?” Morgan asks, turning to Emily. “Did you catch that?”

“She was calling to me,” Emily explains, brows furrowed. “She says that we have a problem: the man doesn’t have an arrow wound. The punctures and blood don’t match up with one, and he was most likely stabbed two or three times. With a knife.”

Gideon adopts the same look of deep concentration, as Emily turns back to Jane incredulously, “ _ Tú hablas español y yo nunca supe? Qué?” _

“Later, Prentiss,” Jane replies stiffly. “You can interrogate me about my language abilities  _ later _ .”

“Jane,” Gideon interrupts. “I’m going to need a moment with this man.”

* * *

 

“I’m sorry your patient died,” Jason apologizes to her lowly on the jet, eyes on the rest of the team.

“‘Your patient,’” she repeats grimmly. “How broken am I to you, Gideon? Not Johnny. Not Mr. Mulford. Not even the Unsub. ‘Your patient.’”

“You’re not broken,” Gideon tries to correct.

“No, no I am.” Jane cuts him off, fists clenching. “But I’m just not broken beyond repair, is that it?”

“Jane-”

“I speak Spanish.” She sucks in a breath, steadying herself. “I didn’t know that. Not that much, I can tell. Not a native or an unused first language. I learned it in school, probably the majority in High School.”

Gideon studies her, and she forces herself to meet his gaze.

“I’ll add it to the book,” he offers her softly, watching as she buries herself in case files again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm jumping 'round the entire series, so feel free to suggest ideas or episodes to write on. I'd love to have your ideas!
> 
> \- Milo Of The Key


	9. 09

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’ll make it,” Gideon calls out softly, and Hotch pauses for just a moment before walking away. “She has to.”

“Neither of us are profilers, and I don’t interview witnesses” Jane declares with unnecessary dramatics. “You know this. Hotch knows this. Even the Georgia LEOs probably know this. So why am I here?”

“Sorry, Jane,” JJ glances over sheepishly at the grumpy doctor, grinning slightly. “But we need to ask this Tobias Hankel for a description of the man he saw prowling, and Reid wanted to go through that pile of books - which I swear he produced out of nowhere - to see what he could predict about other major targets based off the unsub’s delusions.”

“Yes I know, JJ, I was the one to suggest he do that. That doesn’t mean that I’m happy traveling through Armpit, Georgia, to do a job that wasn’t on my contract,” Jane gripes without heat. “And why am I driving? You gotta protect these doctor hands, my friend.”

“Ah yes,” JJ agrees with false formality. “Those incredibly delicate, pampered digits.” She drops the tone, voice falsely innocent, “And I suppose you punching that Unsub in Florida was part of your daily care routine?”

Jane snorts, and JJ counts it as a win.

“Anyway it’s because this is a stick shift,” JJ replies, before catching the look that Jane was sending her way. “Hey! I can drive stick! I just …”

“Have a tendency to crash and/or stall epically when not in an automatic?” Jane supplies lightly.

“ _ Hey! _ ”

* * *

 

“Thank you for your time, sir.” JJ says gracefully, nodding as Hankel starts to close the door. “Sorry for any confusion.”

“That was fishy,” Jane states flatly as they begin to walk from the house.

“I’d say. Why would someone call 911 only to later deny doing it?” JJ voices, confused. “It makes no sense. Was the prowler not really there?”

“No I’d say he was,” Jane says, voice absent with thought. “But regardless of whether he was or not, the call got the police -”

She cuts herself off, eyes wide, and snatches JJ’s wrist; ignoring any protest and dragging JJ to the side of the house to see in any windows she could.

“Jane - hey!” JJ yelps before Jane shushed her. In a lower voice, she continues. “Jane, it got the police to what?”

“To show up. A 911 call - the police would have to show up,” Jane finishes, eyes narrowing as she took in the wall of computers through the window. “And he could gauge the response time, see how long he had.”

“Jane!” JJ exclaims, and Jane tore her eyes away from the Unsub’s live streams in time to see Hankel turn his back on them run out the back. 

They follow hot on his heels, and watched as he bolted into the barn out back. Shoving her satchel to the side, Jane draws her seldom-used gun and nods at JJ to do the same. 

“Hotch knows we’re here,” she reminds the Liaison, voice tight. “And eventually they’ll come for us when they lose contact for long enough.”

“What, so we wait him out?” JJ protests. “There still are other Unsubs, right?”

“Shit.” Jane swears lowly. “We need to split up. He heads out and runs for those fields and he’s gone.”

“Jane I don’t think -”

“JJ, I’m going to go out back. We need to at least try and keep him contained,” Jane interjects, words wary but firm. “Keep an eye on this door.”

“Jane-”

And she turns the corner, leaving JJ alone with her gun and a murderer in the barn.

* * *

 

Morgan is grimacing at the carcases of the dead dogs that tore apart an innocent woman when realizing what - other than the Unsub, Hankel - was missing from the scene. Or rather  _ who _ .

“JJ, where’s Jane?” Morgan asks, holstering his gun as he faced the traumatized Liaison. 

“They just completely tore her apart,” JJ continues to babble, not even seeming to hear Morgan’s question. “There’s nothing even left of her.”

“JJ, look at me. Look at me,” Prentiss cuts her off, her voice softening to the once she uses when talking to a victim. JJ turns to face her, hearing her, and Emily turns firm, clear. “Where’s Jane?

“Oh, we split up,” JJ replies distantly. “She said she was going to go around back.”

Morgan runs off.

* * *

 

“They’re gone.”

Jane blinks, adjusting herself to the light, trying to focus on the man in front of her. “What ‘they?’” She asks, her words slurring slight.  _ Minor concussion. CT recommended for assessment of damages. Minor physical activity and limited mental tasks for at least three weeks. _

“It’s just me now.”

Jane coughs, jolting her head wound. “And who is ‘me’?  
The man straightens up, posture as regal as a king’s. “I am Raphael,” he declares, informs, Jane slowly. She strains at the bindings on her wrists futilely.

“Are you cooking something, Raphy?” Jane asks derisively, not out of some profiling trick but rather a rather strong aversion to showing the man - or at least this personality - any form of respect. “Think it might be burning.”

“Burning fish hearts and livers keeps away the devil.”

“Yeah?” Jane asks, schooling her features and examining the shack she was trapped in, strapped to a chair. “Well so does denying his existence, doesn’t it?”

“I believe you can see inside men’s minds,” Raphael continues, ignoring her sarcasm. 

“Whoa, not a profiler,” Jane corrects sardonically. “Try Jason Gideon. He should be at the station. Feel free to walk right in, I’m sure he’ll see you right away.”

The turn of a revolver’s wheel shuts her up, and she eyes it warily. 

“Do you know what this is?” ‘Raphael’ asks, holding up a single bullet.

“I feel that you’re about to tell me,” Jane bites out before she can stop herself.

“It’s God’s will,” the delusional man corrects, loading the gun and flicking the cylinder into motion. “I am an instrument of God.”

And the hammer clicks.

* * *

 

By the time the unsub - Hankel, Raphael, whoever he is - pushes open the door again, Jane’s had the time to asses all of her injuries. On the off chance that the unsub decides that a minor concussion in enough to properly torture her for her sins, her recovery time would be brief, no longer than a month or so. 

On the off chance.

“What are you staring at, woman?” The man asks, dumping his armload of logs next to the door, glaring. 

_ ‘Don’t engage if you don’t know the profile _ ,’ Aaron’s voice echoed in her mind.  _ ‘You don’t have the training the rest of us do. Profiling is a last resort for you, unless one of us gives you what you need to work with.’ _

‘Right. Don’t engage,’ she thinks dryly. 

As the man - a third personality? It’s not shy Hankel or regal Raphy - uses a log to poke at the burning fish guts, she bows her head to her chest, intent to block out as much of the experience as she can.

“What are you doing, woman?” The man demands, voice harsh and demanding. When she doesn’t respond, he grabs her by the chin roughly, forcing her face up to the light. “What are you doing,  _ woman _ ?” he repeats with venom.

‘Shit. There goes that plan.’

“Praying for forgiveness, sir,” Jane says, doctoring her voice to be meek and demure; what a man like this - definitely religious and clearly misogynistic - would expect a ‘proper’ woman to sound like. “I do not know what I have done to offend the Lord, sir, but I hope through prayer I can be enlightened.”

The Unsub releases her face like he’s been burned, glowering down at her. “And what have you been enlightened of?”

Swallowing dryly, she plays for time. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not have the same strong and admirable bond with Him as you do, sir. If I may ask of you more time, sir, so that when I pray for my salvation I may do so with proper respect and repentance.”

Daring not to meet his eyes, she lowers her face until her eyes fix on a tombstone propped against the barn’s wall, nearly out of her line of sight. She waits in silence, projecting meekness the best she can while concussed, playing the part of the shy little church girl wary of God’s wrath. 

“Only until I return, woman,” The man allows grudgingly. “I will aid the Lord in your punishment when I return.”

And he walked out the door, slamming it behind him before she could get a good look at the area just outside the cabin.

“Shit.”

* * *

 

“You need to eat.”

Jane breathes out a sigh of relief at Tobias soft voice even as she eyes the bloody animal corpse warily.

‘Looks like deer’s on the menu,’ she thinks rather hysterically. ‘Doe and deer and buck and stag and Hart.’

“Tobias?” Jane asks softly, warily, as the personality begins to prepare the meat. “Someone was in here earlier, but I never caught his name. Do you know who he was?”

“That was probably my father,” Tobias replies, a soft smile. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No, of course not.” Jane assures him quickly, relaxing her posture to match and sending him a soft smile. “I would like to get to know you, if I may? May I ask you about yourself?”

‘Careful. Careful.’

“I’m afraid I can’t talk long, I’m sorry.” Tobias apologizes, looking out the window. “My father will be returning soon, and I’d like to cook this sheep up before he gets here.”

“Of course,” Jane concedes with a smile like plastic. “If you’d like to talk to pass the time, I’ll just be here.”

* * *

 

“You ready woman?” Tobias’ father demand roughly, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her face skyward. Jane knew she had ran out of her luck; Tobias’ father leaving her to ‘pray’ was only a stall, after all.

“Ready for what, sir?” She asks, forcing herself to stay calm and polite. 

“My weekling son thinks God gave you to him for a reason,” the man says, jerking her chair around roughly. “Let’s see if he’s right.”

And the murderer pulls out a tripod and video camera and points it right at her.

Jane swallows roughly. And sends out the first real prayer she’s made all night.

‘God,’ she thinks, ‘If you’re out there, don’t force the only people I’ve got to see me die. Not like this.’

* * *

 

Morgan is already on edge, pacing behind Garcia in the house of the man who kidnapped a member of his team. A friend. Jane’s who patches them up after an Unsub gets too close. Who looks at the dead, mutilated corpses so the local LEOs don’t have to. Goddamnit, the only person who can get Reid to switch to decaf. And it all feels like it’s too much, and Derek’s nerves are shot with how jumpy he’s getting.

When the computers go black, chiming in a way that his Baby Girl didn’t cause, his fried nerves get another jolt and dread builds in the pit of his stomach.

A live feed of their Doc right in front of him, coming from who knows where.

“Guys!” He calls, rushing to the doorway. “Guys, get in here!”

And they file in, all of their eyes fixed on the muddied, bloodied figure of their friend on the screens.

“Her head is bloody,” Emily says, strained. “She’s injured.”

“Can’t you track her?” JJ pleads, clutching at her chest.

“Hankel’s only streaming this to his home computer,” Garcia stated grimmly.

“This is for us.” Gideon declares darkly. “He knows we’re here.”

“He’s going to punish her for her sins,” Reid says, voice rough and strained. “And we’re stuck here.”

“I want to put this guy’s head on a stick,” Morgan growls.

His team begins to work it, Garcia explaining why Jane can’t be tracked. Morgan grits his teeth, the heel of his hand coming up to rub at his side, where he can still feel the stitches from when Jane had last stitched him up.

_ ‘Careful, Morgan, _ ’ she had warned, voice firm.  _ ‘You do what you need to to save those lives, but you be damn sure to come back so I can fix you up each time. And don’t tear out these stitches, moron, you have enough scars as it is.’ _

“You really see inside men’s minds?” Charles - or Raphael? - asks from off camera. “See these vermin?” The team exchange glances. “Choose one to die. I’ll let you choose one to live.”

They see Jane swallow roughly, eyes locked offscreen, “I cannot trust the oaths made by a man not in the name of the Lord.” She says woodenly, and the profilers can see her scrambling to maintain a submissive facade.

The sound of footsteps and a man’s back and legs enter the frame. “The other sinners are watching,” Hankel states. “Choose a sinner to die, and I’ll say the name and address of the person to be saved.”

“I have not the blessing of the Lord to choose who may live and who shall be forced into the graveyard.” Jane grits out after a moment, an odd note in her voice.

Hankel lunges forward, pulling Jane up roughly and shaking her, her short frame almost comically small next to the tall figure. “Choose one to die, save a life. Otherwise they’re all dead.”

He drops her again roughly back onto the chair, her breathing labored. “Yessir,” she says, eyes locked on the camera and voice thick. “Sir, if I may I am a doctor. I took an Oath never to harm another man or woman.”

“So?” Charles - or Raphael - spits roughly.

“May I choose who lives instead, sir? So I may keep the Oaths I made in the name of the Lord?”

They all tense at the beginnings of tears tearing Jane’s voice, her voice cracking. Fingers dig into chair backs; Reid’s fingers are like a death grip around Morgan’s arm.

“It’s all the same.”

Jane closes her eyes, and they watch in detached horror as she visually gathers herself - their friend, who had a shell thicker than a tank and the professionalism of all of them combined - crumbling over the choice she is forced to make.

“I choose -” she cuts herself off, head bowed. “I choose the far left screen.”

As Gideon makes the call, Morgan’s eyes stay locked on Jane’s bowed figure until the screen goes dark.

* * *

 

Jane can’t force herself to look away from the away from the woman who was killed. Who  _ she _ killed. She wishes that he had gone numb, go into shock, but Jane’s an FBI agent and a trauma medic and a doctor. She’s not allowed to go into shock.

So she’s stuck watching. Waiting for her delusional captor to return and gut her like the fish on the stove, still burning. 

It takes a second for Gideon’s voice to even register, through it all. Longer for her to see his face.

“Jane.” 

She can’t focus. Concussion? Or guilt.

“If your watching, your not responsible for this. You understand me? You have not broken your Oath. You saved that couple’s life. You are stronger than him. He cannot break you. You cannot die before you complete your task, don’t allow yourself to. I believe in you, Doe.”

And then he’s gone. Jason is gone. 

She still can’t tear her eyes away from the screen.

* * *

 

“We’re not getting any closer,” Hotch says, frustration leaking through his professional facade.

“Jane’s smart. She’s been playing this kind of game too long to lose now,” Gideon reasons, hiding his own worry behind deliberate logic.

“You mean the game where she hides everything she is to cater to those around her?” Hotch grits out, voice shaking. “The game where she puts the safety and wellbeing of others so far over her own that she loses herself entirely into the character she makes for the Bureau, the team?”

“The same game where she joined our team and got the whole DoJ wrapped around her little finger,” Gideon corrects, stopping to face Hotch head on. “The game where she is strapped to a chair located God knows where, playing the choir girl so that Hankel has no reason to punish her. That game, Aaron.”

Hotch forcefully relaxes his jaw, turning away.

“She’ll make it,” Gideon calls out softly, and Hotch pauses for just a moment before walking away. “She has to.”

* * *

 

“No. NO!” Raphael exclaims, glaring at the notification claiming that the video is a virus. “They’re trying to silence my message.”

“Not there with ‘em, sweetheart.” She replies tiredly, giving up the facade of prayer. She’d been muttering lyrics under her breath for hours, and just ran out of Beatles songs. “I can’t control them.”

“Oh, really?” Raphael sneers, playing back Gideon’s message to her on one of the laptops. 

“ _ \- you are stronger than him -” _

Another shift.

“You think you can defy me?” Charles asks, stalking towards her.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about -” she tries.

“You’re a  _ liar _ -!”

She holds in a reflexive whimper.

“You’re a pitiful woman. Spineless - just like my son!”

He hits a command on the laptop, turning the feed back on. “This ends now.” He growls, “Confess your sins.”

She holds her breath as the blow rains down on her.

“Confess!”

“I haven’t done anything,” she chokes out, head reeling, but they just keep coming. She eventually just stops flinching as the blows rain down and down and down and  _ down _ -

It’s almost a relief when she hits the floor.

But it’s not. It can’t be. Because the angle wretches her shoulder out of alignment just as she feels one of her ribs give, so she arches her back and  _ screams _ -

As she’s blacking out, she hears his words:

“And that’s the devil vacating your body.”

* * *

 

Reid’s face is pressed almost right up against the monitor, eyes narrowed and body tense.

“Reid,” Hotch calls, voice harsh with suppressed grief. “ _ Reid _ .”

“She’s not dead.”

The room goes silent, and all eyes are on him while his eyes are on the monitor, tracking the minute rise and fall of her chest. “She blacked out,” he elaborates. “Her breathing is uneven, so she most likely broke a rib. And her shoulder is broken or dislocated. But she’s -”

And then he jerks back as Tobias - the body language clearly Tobias - rushes back on screen. They all watch as the starts to give her CPR, and Reid tenses. 

“If he jars her broken rib it could puncture a lung and kill her in minutes,” Reid spouts out rapidly, eyes wide.

They all watch, and seconds after the compressions had started, Jane seems to force herself awake and is shoving Hankel away from her as best she can still bound and injured, coughing harshly.

Garcia sighs audibly in relief. The rest hold their breath.

* * *

 

“You came back to life.”

Jane tries to breathe shallowly while playing it off as a prayer to a god she’s not sure even exists. “I thank the Lord for granting me a second chance to bless his name,” she croaks, wincing.

“It can be for only one of two reasons,” Raphael decrees, standing over her. “How many members are on your team?”

She can’t think of a reason to lie: “Eight.”

“Seven, and then you?”

“Yes,” she gulps.

“The seven angels who had the seven trumpets and prepared themselves to sound,” Raphael quoted. “The first sounded and there followed hail and fire mixed with blood, and they were thrown to Earth.”

Raphael wretches her chair up forcefully, shoving her back into the seat heedless of her abused ribs. “Who do you serve?”

“I serve the Lord as he sees fit,” she gasps out through the pain.

“Then choose one to die,” he commands, leveling his revolver at her face.

* * *

 

“What?” Jane asks through the speakers, favoring her wrist and side gingerly.

“Your team members. Choose one to die.”

“Kill me,” she pleads, and Reid can feel his heart break. The most raw emotion he’d ever heard from the brilliant woman, and it could be moments before her death. It’s not fair.

“You are not one of the Seven. Tell me who dies.”

“No.”

Reid’s heart clenches, eyes locked on the gun inches from Jane’s face. 

“Choose,” Raphael commands again, and he hears someone’s breath catch. “And you’ll do God’s will.”

“No.” She pants out, head held high, staring down the barrel of the gun.

The gun clicks once. There’s no time to feel relief.

“Choose.”

“I love more than I hate,” Jane recites like a mantra, eyes closed against the world.

Click.

“I heal more than I harm.”

Click.

“And I shall forever value life above all else.”

Click.

Silence. A pause, in the house and over the camera.

“Life is a choice. Choose.”

A 50/50 chance. Spencer can’t even swallow.

They watch as she swallows harshly, breathing uneven. “I choose …” She wets her lips. “I choose Spencer Reid.”

He can feel his team’s eyes on him, but Spencer only has eyes for the screen.

“Reid has never respected me,” Jane croaks, head high. “He has no respect for my work or the work of the team, poaching credit left and right. If anyone deserves to die, it’s him.”

Raphael raises his barrel and shoots the wall, and the feed cuts off.

Silence echoes through the room.

“I’m not disrespectful.”

Gideon turns toward him, reassurances falling from his lips but Reid waves his hand, cutting him off. “No,  _ no _ !” Spencer cuts through, eyes on the black screen. “I’m not disrespectful. I might not listen sometimes, but I always respect her and her work. And I never  _ poach _ .”

Hotch catches on first. “Everything she said,” he starts. “It’s not true. He was forcing her to make a choice, but Jane only had to say a name. She  _ could’ve  _ just said a name, so why say the rest unless it was for a reason?”

“ _ Poaching _ ,” Gideon breathes. “Garcia, can you see if there have been any reports of poaching nearby?”

The tapping of keys. “A farmer has reported two sheep missing in the last couple days,” She reports. 

“Within the area we narrowed down?” JJ asks.

“Graveyard,” Reid exclaims suddenly. “You guys,  _ graveyard _ .”

They turn toward him, confused.

“First time we saw Jane. When Hankel asked her to choose who to die, after he told her that we were watching,” Reid explains hastily. “‘ _ I have not the blessing of the Lord to choose who may live and who shall be forced into the graveyard. _ ’ Graveyard.  _ Graveyard _ .”

“Garcia,” Morgan begins, but is cut off immediately.

“Got it!” Garcia exclaims, eyes locked on the screen. “Marshall Parish. Within the zone and smack in the middle of an old dilapidated graveyard.”

“We’re coming, we’re coming,” Morgan mutters, eyes on the map - on Marshall Parish.

* * *

 

It’s not even a surprise to Jane when the door gets kicked in. As Hotch and Morgan burst in - closely followed by the rest of the team - she just wishes that it was Tobias who was there to great them.

Not Charles, who immediately has a knife to her neck.

“Let her go, Hankel.” Hotch demand, gun trained on the sliver of Hankel’s torso not being protected by Jane’s body. “She’s not a sinner.”

“She is a sinner!” He insists, forcing her to stand. “They all are! They must repent.”

Jane, sick and tired and injured, cannot contain the laugh that burst from her mangled body, shooting stabbing pain up her side like a knife in her gut. The attention of the room abruptly shifts at the startling sound. 

“What?” She barks, hysterical humor in her voice. “You think that you can force me to pay for all of my sins using a _ pocket knife _ ?”

Humor still bursts from her recklessly, the jostling of her cackles digging the bowie knife deeper into her neck. For the life of her she can’t even pinpoint what’s even funny. But he’s listening.

“You pathetic man,” she sneers, ignoring the warning looks of her team. “An instrument of God? His tool? I have been punished by men far more powerful than you could ever dream to be.”

She reaches up to dig her nails into the arm across her chest, fingers tight enough to draw blood. “God punished me,” She assures him, snarl feral. “He tore me apart and left me in the wastelands  _ alone  _ as I tried desperately in vain to pull myself back together again. He took my soul and caged it, locked tight; hidden well and stolen away from myself and the world alike.  _ God himself _ decided that I was worthy of living but unworthy of life - and now? You think your  _ righteousness _ can possibly compare?” 

“God has already tried her,” Gideon cuts in, gun holstered and hands up. “You can move onto the next sinner. You can complete His work where it is needed most, not where He has already been.”

‘Charles’ rocks back, grip loosening just slightly on Jane -

Just enough to get a bullet through the forehead courtesy of one Aaron Hotchner.

When the body crumples, Hankel’s knife drags across Jane’s collar bone. A slash of pain, and then the last thing she sees before she collapses is Gideon rushing towards her, reaching out, lips moving.

And then the black comes.

* * *

 

Jane feels nothing when the world comes back to her, but she figures that’s the pain meds more than her clean bill of health.

Well, she does feel something. 

She cracks her eyes open with much effort to see a larger, more callused hand in her own glove-free one. She follows it up, eyes running along the attached wrist and arm up to Aaron, who is smiling at her softly.

Jane blinks slowly, finding it hard to think through the cloud of pain medication.

At least she wasn’t wearing some hospital gown.

“You know,” Aaron smiles wryly as he reaches over to her call button. “You’re not actually trained as a field agent.”

She closes her eyes, too tired to snap back at him. She feels herself drifting.

“Hey, no.” Hotch protests in a voice usually reserved for Jack or Haley, squeezing her hand gently. “Stay awake until the nurse comes, okay?”

Jane struggles to pry her eyes back open, and lolls her head to the side to take him in. His suit is rumpled and slung across the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up and tie loosened. His hair a mess, and the smell of old coffee and too little deodorant lingered in the air.

“You look tired,” She crokes, wincing at the pull the movement makes at her neck.

“Careful,” Aaron murmurs, ignoring her statement. “You nearly got your carotid sliced open. No reason to finish the job.”

“JJ?” Jane asks, because even if she doubts that anything happened to her friend, she can’t be too sure.

“JJ’s fine,” He assures her, squeezing her hand gently. “You were the only one that Hankel got from our team.”

It’s then that a lean woman in a white coat comes in, a handful of staff trailing behind her. Aaron gets up as if to leave, but Jane has an iron grip on his wrist before he can even fully get up.

She doesn’t say anything, and neither does he. He simply sits back down and holds her hand.


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You telling me?” She asks, turning towards the front hall, and he trails behind her. “Or are telling yourself?”

In the silence of the jet, Jane is pulled from checking Emily’s reflexes post 4-by-4-to-the-head via the ringing of her phone. She tears her attention away from the raven haired agent, holding up a single finger as she digs through her satchel for the incessant _brrrrring_.

She doesn’t recognize the number.

“Doctor Hart,” Jane greets, flicking her phone open. 

“Doe,” Gideon’s voice sounds from the phone, tinny with the distance and the quality of the call. Clearly not from a cell phone. “Jane Doe. Guess it comes full circle then.”

“Jay?” Jane asks, straightening up, worried by something in his voice. She gestures to Prentiss to wait and starts to pick her way to the back of the plane - near the cabin in hopes of some semblance of privacy. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day.”

“Don’t tell the others,” Gideon pleads, voice tight and emotional. “Not even Hotch. Especially not Reid.”

“Okay,” Jane agrees quickly, concern rising. “Okay. But where are you?”

“Doesn’t matter now,” he dismisses. “I thought about writing a letter. Like I was going to do for Spencer - like I did for Spencer - but that isn’t fair to you.”

“Doesn’t sound fair to him either, Jay,” Jane points out. “Letter for what?”

“A letter to say goodbye.”

Jane swallows, leaning her head against the cool side of the cabinets. “Goodbye,” she echoes. “So this is how it ends, eh?”

“It comes full circle,” Gideon repeats, voice soft. “This is how it began for you and I, didn’t it?”

“No, Jay, it began when you and your Italian boyfriend showed up one morning outside my dingy flat in Boston and did your best to pitch to me why this was what I wanted,” Jane corrects, voice wry and thick. “It began when I socked Dave in the face and kicked the both of you out, threatening to press charges.”

“But then you called while I was on a plane five months later,” Gideon reminds her, a sad smile in his voice. “And you asked me where you needed to put your damn name already.”

“I wasn’t the same Jane back then,” Jane says, hunched as tears gathered despite herself. “I hoped that I’d be a different one when you left.”

“Oh, Doe.” Gideon comforts. “You already are.

“So that’s it then?” She asks, straightening up and wiping her eyes. “I get a phone call and he gets a letter and we never see you again?”

“Find me when you have a name,” Gideon orders gently. “I’d like to know it.”

And the phone clicks, dial tone sounding.

Jane stares at the phone numbly, ignoring the eyes of everyone on the plane on her. Profiling her. Suffocating her.

And it’s Strauss, with no knowledge of how this team functioned or anything about Jane herself, who breaks the silence. “Dr. Hart?” She asks, genuine - but completely unwelcome - concern in her voice. “Are you alright?”

“With all due respect, Ma’m,” Jane finds herself replying, reflexive and biting. “That is none of your damn business.”

* * *

 

It’s close to 3:00 AM when her doorbell rings, and Jane has to scramble to throw on a long sleeve shirt over her tank top before she can even think of answering it. When she does, she doesn’t pretend to be surprised at who she sees on her stoop.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Reid demands the moment she opens her door, anger radiating from his whippet thin frame. “That call on the plane, the one you snapped at Strauss about. Gideon called you.”

“Yes, he did,” Jane confirms, leaving the door open as she turned back into her apartment, not checking to see if he would follow. “And he wrote you that letter in your pocket because he knew that you would respond like this.”

“Like what?” He demands, stung. “Hurt - like any sensible person whose mentor -  _ friend  _ \- has  _ abandoned _ them?”

“ _ Angry _ ,” Jane corrects him. “He wrote because he knew you would be  _ angry _ .”

“Of course I’m angry!” Reid spits, bristling. “And why aren’t you?”  
“Oh, I’m angry,” Jane snaps back, feeling her own heat rising. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me that I’m not.”

“He explained himself to you!” Spencer yells, headless of her neighbors. “He left and called you - you were on the phone for less than five minutes and you didn’t ask him anything! You didn’t tell any of us anything! We could’ve found him -  _ talked  _ to him!”

“And done what? Drag him back kicking and screaming, miserable from a job he dedicated his  _ life  _ to?” Jane bellows, startling the genius. “And what the hell do you mean by ‘explain’? He never explains things to me! Never has, never will. I’m not a profiler, Reid. He’s not my mentor or surrogate father or whatever the hell he was to you! I was his friend, and we all hide things from our friends, Spencer!”

Jane runs a hand haphazardly through her hair, trying in vain to calm herself down. “You didn’t think, Spinner. You didn’t  _ think _ ,” she growls. “Jay never told me why he was leaving. He expected that I would understand, that I would  _ get it _ . He knew that you wouldn’t, not yet, and that’s why he wrote you, of all people, a letter. He wrote that letter - to  _ you  _ \- for a reason. Think long and hard about that instead of getting ready to wage war on someone hurting just as much as you are!”

Stunned silence.

“Jay,” Spencer echoes, awed. “You called him ‘Jay’.”

“I call you ‘Spinner,’” she reminds him warily. “What difference does it make.”

“I -” he cuts himself off, finding his words. “I knew you two were friends, that he was … I didn’t realize how - how close you two … were.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “That’s the point. That’s always been the point.”

He stands in silence, contemplating.

Jane massages her face, sighing deeply through her nose. “Neither of us are sleeping tonight, are we?”

Reid shuffles, just seeming to realize the time of night and Jane’s state of disarray.

“It’s fine,” she waves before he can even begin to form an apology. “Cocoa and chess?”

* * *

 

“Did Gideon teach you to play?” Reid asks after their third round, watching as the light of the sun began to break through Jane’s heavy curtains while she packs up her set.

“Nah, not technically,” Jane replies, counting the pieces. “But he taught me strategy, so kinda.”

“Oh,” Spencer replies, shifting in the ancient armchair awkwardly, looking around to distract himself.

Jane’s apartment was tiny, and as far as Spencer could tell had only the barest minimum. The table was only large enough for three, tops, with only two chairs in the whole apartment - both mismatched and clearly thrifted. Her kitchen was more accurately a kitchenette, attached to the main space with a mini fridge and camping oven and no dishwasher. The house held no photos, no certificates. Only the occasional article of clothing, random pile of files, or odd book marked the apartment as lived in at all. And although this was only the central room, there only seemed to be a single bedroom and bathroom other than it.

“I like your flat,” Spencer comments, not sure what else to say. “I didn’t really notice it when I came in. Cozy.”

“Cute lie, Spinner,” Jane smirks, tying up her hair as she heads towards the kitchenette. “It’s worth nothing more than a place to sleep and a good way for my coworkers to profile me. Acuka?”

Spencer blinks, unfamiliar with the word. “Sorry?” 

“Acuka,” Jane repeats, digging into her fridge. “Only thing I really ever make, and only recipe I know by heart. It’s a spicy tomato paste spread. Mediterranean. It’s good.”

“Oh, ah,” He flounders. “Well -”

“Spinner, calm down.” Jane orders flatly. “Breathe.”

“Sorry,” He mutters. “I didn’t think this through when I stormed in last night.”

“I,” Jane declares. “Am going to go shower. And then I am going to get ready for work. If I return and you are still here, that is fine. If I return and you are not, that is also fine. If I return and you have eaten all the acuka, that is  _ not _ fine.”

And with that, Spencer watches her practically  _ flounce _ off into the bathroom, leaving him in stunned silence behind her.

* * *

 

“Hey Pretty Boy,” Morgan calls out to him late that afternoon, sidling up to Reid as he settles at his desk. “Any reason why I saw two docs instead of one climb out of that rust bucket of yours this morning?”

“I went to talk to Jane last night after I found out … about Gideon,” Reid explains, honestly yet awkwardly. “But it was so late it was early, so I stayed and we just came together this morning.”

“Wait, you stayed at Jane’s?” Emily interrupts, “I didn’t realize you two were that close.”

“We’re not!” Spencer hastily corrects, flushing. “When I got the letter, I realized that Jane’s weird phone call was from Gideon about him leaving.”

“So you stormed her place, guns blazing,” Morgan nods, a grin tugging at the edge of his lips. “And then you made up and stayed the night.”

Reid finds himself nodding before his friend’s implications catch up to him, and he blushed furiously.

“Morgan!”

* * *

 

When the doorbell to the Hotchner home rang, Haley was the one to get it while Aaron coaxed Jack into eating another spoonful of cheerios rather than throwing it to the ground. 

“Oh, I know you,” Aaron can hear Haley say to whomever was at the door, and he felt his curiosity peak. “Aaron is in the kitchen - would you care to come in?”

He looks up from his messy son when he hears footsteps nearing the table, and sees Haley leading an uncomfortable looking Jane into the kitchen, in her work clothes and wearing a pair of orange fingerless gloves no doubt courtesy of Garcia. Jane tries for a smile through her obvious discomfort, and Aaron stands to meet her with a grin. 

“Jane,” He greets, nodding his head to his son. “Have you met my son Jack?”

“No, I haven’t,” Jane replies, latching onto a topic of conversation like a lifeline. “But he’s quite the little one.”

Aaron turns to scoop Jack up, secretly crowing at the opportunity to push Jane out of her comfort zone even further. “Jack,” He says to the two year old. “Do you want to say hi to Auntie Jane?”

Jane looks immediately overwhelmed, and as Jack begins to make grabby hands at ‘Auntie Jane’ - which Jane automatically obliges by taking him oh-so-carefully from Aaron’s arms - Aaron locks eyes in satisfaction with Haley, who’s smiling softly at the scene. 

Jane looks at Jack with a sort of bewilderment - the kind that he would’ve thought the stoic woman couldn’t possess when they first met all those years ago. And Jack’s a happy kid, reaching out to tug at Jane’s turtleneck and bits of her hair, which the doctor takes with grace.

“So, Jane.” Haley interrupts after a long moment, still smiling. “What brings you here this morning?”

“Sorry to drop in on you like this,” Jane responds automatically, falling back into polite habits. “I just …” She trails off, and glances over at Hotch with a mixed expression. “Well, I heard about the suspension yesterday,” She admits. “And I wanted to talk, but it didn’t seem right over the phone. Didn’t think it through, entirely.”

“Well then,” Halley declares. “I’ll take this little guy to get ready for the day, and you two can talk.”

* * *

 

Once Jack and Haley are out of the room, Jane can feel herself relax immediately.  _ Pathetic _ .

“Suspension, really?” She complains, punching Aaron in the arm. “That was Gideon’s call, at the college. That girl ended her own life.”

“I couldn’t slander his name like that, Jane.” Aaron protests, justifies, but she’s not having it.

“He slandered his own name when he ditched us,” She states bluntly, suppressing the flinch she wants to let out at her own words. “I love Jason, Aaron. He was my first friend here. When I was some upstart doctor you wanted to dissect, and some kind of secret weapon Strauss wanted to level up her team with, Gideon was never like that. Jay was there for  _ Jane _ , not Dr. Hart.”

“I thought you would’ve been more understanding,” Aaron shoots back with ice. “After all, you’re running away from your past too.”

“Oh no, no. I’m not running away,” She corrects with vitriol. “I’m running  _ towards  _ something. Always have been. Jay isn’t.”

She looks at him meaningfully.

“You think I’m running,” Aaron accuses her, and she holds his gaze. “I’m not running.”

“You telling me?” She asks, turning towards the front hall, and he trails behind her. “Or are telling yourself?”

“Like you’re one to judge,” He calls after her, and she pauses with her hand on the door. “How many times have you taken the easy way out?”

“Oh, Aaron.” She calls over her shoulder, “I’m far too much of a hypocrite to tell you what to do. But how many times have you tried to convince me to stay and fight?”

And she closes the door behind her.


	11. 11

“Jane, do you have a minute?”

Jane glances up from her files at Aaron hovering in her doorway, and nods as she puts the last few touches on the toxicology workup she was annotating. Her Unit Chief is polite enough to wait for her to finish, crossing his hands across his stomach and watching her work.

Just as she puts her pen down, Hotch speaks up.

“So,” He begins with a light grin. “Strauss just called to give me a heads up about a new Agent.”

Jane smirks at her friend, reading his hidden glee as she ran her fingers through her flyaways. “Oh, so you finally convinced her of your competence?” She joked. “She actually willingly informed you?”

Hotch’s grin grows, proud of his work. “I have no idea what you mean,” He dismisses shamelessly. “Anyway, Dave’s coming in tomorrow, so you don’t have as much time as I know you’d like, but our load has been light recently …”

“Dave?” Jane asks, head cocked. “Dave who?”

* * *

 

“Wow,” Dave comments, watching JJ walk off through the bullpen. “We didn’t have that 10 years ago.”

Hotch turns to him, “What do you mean?”

“Communication coordinator,” Rossi saves face, ever the smooth recovery.   
“Right.” Hotch keeps his grin on the inside, “Well a lot’s changed. We have our own embedded doctor now. Technically two, but only one is medically trained.”

“Two doctors in the BAU …” Rossi’s eyebrows go up, impressed, “I didn’t realize that the team would get injured enough to warrant one.”

“We do see enough crime scenes and injured victims to warrant a forensic pathologist and ME,” Hotch points out dryly. “Getting patched up is just a perk. Come meet the team.”

* * *

 

“Ohmigod,” Rossi hears behind him, turning to face a very colorful woman using a file to block her view of the screen. “What is that?”

Dave is frankly rather distracted by the sheer amount of  _ color  _ this woman is wearing - right down to the pink highlights in her bleached hair - and her rather vocal reaction, which is his excuse for not noticing the second woman until she speaks.

“JJ, turn that off, will you?” The woman - dressed distinctly in black - asks the Media Liaison and Communications Coordinator, gently nudging the colorful woman’s hands away from her face once the image is gone. “Penny, you’re fine.”

“It’s gone?” The first woman - Penny - asks rhetorically.

“Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia,” Hotch introduces, cutting through the chaos. 

As the Technical Analyst stumbles through the rest of her entrance, her introduction, and her exit, Rossi finds himself more focused on the picture the two women made than the words being exchanged.

They were polar opposites - from how they reacted to the photos to the way they held themselves to the color of their appearances. Garcia had light hair and skin, her clothes were colorful yet pale. The second woman, who was oddly familiar, was all dark hair and olive skin, wearing all black except for a wide, lavender belt that stood out starkly against the rest of her ensemble. As Garcia immediately focused her attention on him, the other barely spared him a glance. The image was paint versus ink, pigment against pitch.

But where had he seen this second woman before?

Once Garcia had left, the unnamed woman reached over the table to grab the remote from where it rested next to Agent Jareau and flicked the slide back to the faceless crime scene photo. She walks around the table, crossing her arms with the remote coming up to tap at her lips. She narrows her eyes, and something about that niggles at the back of Dave’s mind.

“This was not professional,” The woman declares, turning to the team. “By hand, yes. With a knife, definitely. But this person has no medical training to speak of, or if they do it’s so little it shouldn’t even count.”

“Any idea what kind of blade would do that, Doc?” Agent … Morgan asks, tapping a pen against his notepad. So the woman was the doctor Aaron spoke of. “If it’s not medical then …”

“X-acto?” She responds, tossing Jareau the remote. “Paring knife? Household, for sure, but not serrated. He doesn’t seem to be one to buy specialty.”

“Which means that most likely everything else he used to commit his crimes are within his typical sphere. Within his means day to day,” Aaron nods, gathering up his papers. 

“Well that’s the sum of my expertise,” The doctor - medical examiner? - finished. “I’ve got a consult to wrap up. I’ll meet you on the jet.”

Rossi watches her go, mind turning.

* * *

 

It isn’t until the jet is in the air that Dave recognizes her.

“That’s it,” He suddenly exclaims, snapping his fingers to point at her. “You’re that doctor Gideon went to recruit in Boston.”

Jane immediately notices everyone else on the plane perk up, smelling blood in the water like the little profiler-sharks they were. Even Aaron doesn’t know how she was recruited, so her friend isn’t likely to save her from this inevitable showdown.

“If I remember,” Rossi continues, eyes narrowing with remembered irritation. “You weren’t very keen on joining when we came to talk to you.”

“I wasn’t,” She confirms, knowing that drawing this out won’t help her, but honestly too stubborn to apologize. “Then I was. And now I’m here.”

“That so?” Rossi drawls, more of a statement than a question. “Hare, was it?”

“ _ Hart _ ,” She snarls before she can reign herself in. The team flinches in surprise, and she can see Morgan and Emily exchange glances.

“Is that so?” Rossi challenges, eyes flashing.

“This really the first impression you want to leave on the team, Dave?” Jane growls, her shoulders tensing.

“Can’t be much worse than my first impression of you,” Dave counters dryly, slouching back. “Surely you saw it in my file.”

“I don’t need a file to know I broke your nose,  _ Agent _ .” Jane laughs dryly, ignoring the looks her way.

“Why? Because you’re a doctor?” Rossi volleys, in full profiling gear. “Oh, no. I know. It’s because someone way back all those years ago, back even before you were little Dr. Hart, living out of a shit apartment in the seediest part of Boston, someone broke yours. And you know exactly what the snap of cartilage sounds like. The bruises it leaves -”

“That’s  _ enough _ .” Aaron finally cuts in, voice firm. “Dave, enough. I get you two have history, but that is no reason to bring it out here. Either deal with it professionally or you are both off this case.”

Jane buries herself back into her paperwork, resisting the urge to rub her fingers over the bridge of her nose.

* * *

 

“Dr. Hart,” Jane answers on the first ring.

“Did you really punch David Rossi?” Penelope asks immediately, forgoing her usual greeting. She twirls a fuzzy pen between her fingers, eyes still on her screens. “Because I heard from a little birdie - that is actually a very buff birdie - that you admitted to doing that. On the jet. In front of Hotch.”

A sigh comes through the line as Jane takes a second to answer. Used to her friends emotional hang ups, Penelope continues to narrow down the suspect lists idly. 

“I’m not going into this, Penny,” Jane finally responds, sounding tired. “But yes, I did punch him.”

“And broke his nose, Janey.” Penelope reminds her.

“And broke his nose,” the doctor repeats, sounding a little amused. “So does LeFey give you all the gossip, or just the dirt on me?”

“No comment,” Garcia grins, delighted by the shift in mood. “I’ll just plead the fifth on that one. But  _ you  _ can talk.”

“My using you to know when Morgan keeps his injuries from me is not the same as the big lug gossiping about the drama between me and the newbie,” Jane protests, stubborn.

“Oh, is that so?” Garcia giggles. “And hasn’t Rossi been in the BAU since its founding up until his retirement like seven years ago?”

“Ten,” Jane deapans. “And he just started. He’s a newbie.”

Jane hangs up on her.

Garcia snorts, ending her side of the call, and goes back to work.

* * *

 

“Hey, are you … okay?”

Jane glances up at Reid, a smile tugging at the side of her lips. Uncomfortable with emotions as her fellow Doctor tended to be, he was a friend. Somewhere along the line, that’s what they became.

“Yeah, Spinner, I’m okay.” She confirms, trying for a reassuring look. “I don’t actually have a problem with Dave. Just … what he represents.”

“What … does he represent, then?” Spencer asks, brows furrowed.

Jane sighs, bracing her hands on the back of the conference room chair.

“You don’t have to-” Spencer starts to backtrack, but she cuts him off.

“Nah, it’s fine.”  She sighs, pushing herself off the uncomfortable office chair and busied her hands by straightening the files on the desk. She clears her throat. “I didn’t want to join the FBI.” 

He falls silent - not even shifting with his bottled up energy - and she takes the moment to collect herself, gazing through the window to the bustling police station. “I didn’t,” She repeats, finding her words. “The first time Jay came to my door with Dave at his heels I was a broken, messed up clinic doctor far too overqualified to stitch up bar fights and diagnose STDs.”

“Really?” Reid asks, faintly disbelieving. “I thought you were a forensic pathologist before you came here. You do have the training for it.”

“Oh, I do.” Jane grins wryly. “But I wasn’t using it. There’s such a shortage in this country - in the world, even - that I think that I offended Dave, sitting on all that talent, that knowledge. His voicing how I was wasting my life was why I decked him.”

“You really punched him,” Reid echoes, amazed. “Because he said you were wasted outside the FBI?”

“No,” She shakes her head. “I punched him because he tried to pretend he knew me, pretend that he understood why I made the choices I did.”

A pause.

“What changed?” 

“I did, I guess.” Jane admits, pondering the simple question. “It was late October, later that year, when I called Gideon back. I was dealing with all these drunk college kids getting alcohol poisoning from stupid Halloween parties, and I couldn’t believe that my life was coming down to that. All I had was a revolving door of patients that I would never see again, and I made no real impact on their lives.”

She grimaces, glancing over at her friend. “The help I gave anyone else could’ve,” She confesses. “And I realized that I wanted to do something that only I could do, for the first time maybe ever. So I made the call.”

“I’m glad,” Is all he says, and they turn back to the case.

* * *

 

Jane successfully managed to avoid interacting with Rossi for the rest of the investigation without dodging him outright, but of course the moment they’re on the jet in a small confined space she gets cornered.

Surprisingly, though, she gets double teamed.

“I don’t do threesomes, Aaron,” She throws out, trying and failing at humor.

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Dave voices mechanically, “No.”

“Then we’re on the same page,” Jane deflects, trying in vain to end the conversation before it began. “If that’s all, gentlemen?”

“Of course it’s not that easy,” Hotch comments dryly, an eyebrow raised. 

“You know what they say about cornered animals, Aaron,” Jane warns, but it’s no use.

They sit down across from her, and she reluctantly closes her files.

“I owe you an apology,” Rossi starts, and Jane is actually so startled that she has to take a moment to actually hear what he said.

“What?” Jane responds dumbly before finding her feet. “For what, exactly?” She gathers herself, responding sardonically.

“For how I treated you when we first met.”

Jane sits back, scanning the obviously eavesdropping team, locking eyes with a rather guilty Reid. Jane shoots him an arched look, accepting his transgresion, and turns back to Rossi. 

“Now, we both know you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” 

Rossi grimaces and raises a hand to stroke his beard, a tell if she’d ever seen one. He’s nervous, meaning it’s genuine. He’d never be nervous about a lie.

“I presumed to know you, back then.” Dave clarifies, clearly embarrassed and frustrated for the sake of his past self. “All I saw was a young woman with an amazing mind who was turning a friend away cold because of reasons that I couldn’t understand.”

“That you didn’t  _ choose _ to understand,” Jane corrects, but she’s losing her harsh edge. “I shouldn’t have socked you, but you kinda deserved it.”

“Yeah,” He chuckles, his good nature shining through. “Yeah, I did.”

“Start over?” Jane asks, extending her olive branch.

“Hello,” Dave smiles, sticking out a hand. “SSA David Rossi. I just re-joined the team.”

“Dr. Hart,” Jane smirks as she takes the proffered hand. “They call me Jane.”


	12. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you saying, Jane?” Hotch cuts through, eyes locked with the doctor.
> 
> “I’m saying I’ll do it.”

“Focal retrograde amnesia?” Hillenbrand hissed at him, seething and trying to keep it together. “ _ Focal retrograde amnesia _ ?”

“Cece, this doesn’t change that he strangled those women,” Aaron reminds the district attorney, calming her down. “This will change your prosecution, but it is not insurmountable.”

“How do we even know that he’s not faking this?” The lawyer grits, shoulders tense. “This could just be some defense he’s cooking up to try and get out of his sentence.”

Hotch pauses, thinking. 

“You know,” He starts, mind racing. “I do know someone who can help with that.”

* * *

 

Jane’s phone rings, but considering she was in the middle of pulling the skin of Anderson’s knuckle - a casualty of the recently damaged coffee machine - back together with a sterilized needle and thread, she can’t answer it. Luckily, Reid just reaches over and plucks it from her satchel for her, putting it on speaker.

“ _ Jane, _ ” Aaron’s voice sounds out. “ _ According to the doctors, Brian Matloff has focal retrograde amnesia. _ ”

“Sucks for him,” Jane comments dryly, the beginnings of apprehension building in her gut. “Sucks for your lawyer friend too.”

“ _ We don’t know the validity of it, _ ” Hotch presses forward, and Emily, shamelessly eavesdropping from her desk, begins to eye her intently as she no doubt starts to notice her tension at his words. “ _ And the doctors can only confirm tissue damage, not the full validity of his loss of memory claim _ .”

“So brain fingerprint him, Aaron.” Jane deadpans.

“ _ And we will, _ ” Hotch agrees, voice firm. “ _ But that’s not going to be enough and you know it. _ ”

“So what do you want from me?” Jane asked, knowing that her voice is going brittle and her coworkers and beginning to notice how disquieted she is. “Officially, all I’m here for is to look at your dead bodies and blood stains. Got any of those, Hotchner?”

Over her head, she can feel Spinner and Emily exchanging glances, reading far too deeply - and most likely in all the right ways - into her responses. Sometimes she hates profilers.

“ _ You are the most knowledgeable of our team when it comes to amnesia, Dr. Hart, and your assessment will be invaluable to our case, _ ” Hotch insists in his Boss-Man voice.

“Yet completely inadmissible in court,” Jane dismisses. “As in: I refuse to testify, Hotchner.”

“ _ So tell me what you find: I speak for all of us, Jane, _ ” Hotch pressures. “ _ I am your Unit Chief, Dr. Hart. _ ”

Jane grits her teeth, finishing off her final stitch. Anderson retracts his arm warily, retreating quickly after a muttered thanks.

“Fine. Come back once you finish scanning his head.”

Then she reaches over and plucks the phone from Reid’s loose grip, hanging up on him.

* * *

 

“The brain fingerprinting may have just killed any chance we have of putting Matloff away,” Hotch confides in Rossi as they walk through the bullpen to the rest of the team.

“The DA isn’t required to enter it into evidence,” Rossi offers, even if they both know that there isn’t much chance of that.

“No, but he can get it on discovery,” Hotch counters grimmly, glancing at Rossi. “And you can bet he’s gonna use it.”

“And that’s why I distrust all technology,” Rossi tries for humor, but it lands dead when they come up on the rest of the team. Jane, who’s sitting on the edge of Reid’s desk with case file in hand, is wearing a miserable expression and Hotch knows that he’s the only one who really understands what put it there. Namely: him.

“What’s up?” Rossi asks, concerned, and Hotch has to stifle the instinct to shush the older man. “Something about Matloff?”

Jane shrugs stiffly, eyes locked on the brain fingerprinting results in front of her. “That’s the thing,” She starts, looking as if she wanted to be anywhere else at that moment. “As much as we all believe that he’s guilty, you can’t beat brain fingerprinting by cheating.”

“So how’d he get over?” Morgan asks, butting in. “You just said nobody could beat this test.”

“The damage to his parietal lobe must have been more extensive than previously thought,” Reid supplies. “The brain injury could have literally deleted his memories.”

“Oh, he did the murders,” Rossi shrugs, blunt. “And we’ll prove it, what he remembers doesn’t matter.”

“Here’s the thing,” Jane buts in before Prentiss can start spinning philosophical hypotheticals again, snapping her case file shut. “There are four possibilities, but the numbers aren’t being cut down fast enough.”

“Possibilities?” Emily echoes. “Cut down?”

“Possibility one, he’s guilty and he is lying about the amnesia.” Jane starts to elaborate, eyes on the far wall. “The fingerprinting eliminated that one. Down to three.”

“Two, he’s guilty but has amnesia,” Reid continues, seeing her thought pattern. “That’s still on the table.”

“Three, he’s innocent and has amnesia,” Jane continues. “Four, he’s innocent and doesn’t have amnesia.”

“Why would he lie about the amnesia if he was innocent?” JJ asks, confused. “He could plead not guilty and plead his innocence through the trial.”

But Jane is shaking her head, frowning. “If it wasn’t for the amnesia as a hiccup that everyone is focusing on, it would be a far more clean cut case, even with the dead witness,” Jane explains, eyes going up to Hotch. “So clear cut that we could speed it on through the circuit without time for an innocent man to get his side out, and Option Number Four Matloff would know that. So he throws amnesia in as a roadblock, and builds a defense that won’t get him convicted.”

“That also would apply for him being guilty without amnesia,” Morgan protests. “Number One.”

“But the fingerprinting disproved that,” Reid objects.

“What are you saying, Jane?” Hotch cuts through, eyes locked with the doctor.

“I’m saying I’ll do it.” 

The team turns fully to watch the staring match between their Unit Chief and Doctor, thrown off guard.

“Oh?” Hotch comments lightly, carefully not playing his cards too soon.  
“Oh don’t play coy, Aaron.” Jane snaps bitterly, snarling lightly. “It doesn’t suit you. This all -” she gestures at the group “- has been to push me to play the game your way, because no matter how sure you are of that profile, part of you still wants to be certain. So you want me to cut down one more possibility.”

“What are you talking about?” JJ interjects warily, confused by the out of character animosity. “Jane? Hotch?”

“Oh, Hotchner here just wants to make sure that our Matloff isn’t lovely,  _ stupid  _ Number Four,” Jane replies with false chipper. “Who’s up for a road trip? It’s been a while since I’ve been to a  _ prison. _ ”

* * *

 

Jane removes her satchel, shoving it roughly into the provided locker alongside her gun, doing her best to ignore her teammates as they do the same. She may slam the door shut and yank the key out with more force than strictly necessary, but she’s pissed at Aaron so it’s okay.

“Doc, you still haven’t told us why we’re here.” Morgan probes tentatively, prudently aware of how much she’s an angry wasp nest at the moment.

She ignores him, focused on signing in and following the gestured directions of a guard. A distant part of her is impressed with the self control of Morgan not to ask again, but the rest is too focused on not blowing her top.

“Jane, calm down,” Rossi tries to reason with her, placing a hand on her shoulder and slowing her down. “Just because you’re angry with Hotch doesn’t mean that you should resent him for asking you to do your job.”

Jane’s calm shell finally cracks as she throws off his hand glaring at the older man. “I’m not angry with Aaron because he asked me to do my job, Dave.” She hisses sourly. “I’m  _ pissed  _ with him because he’s asking me to go beyond my contract. This isn’t what I signed up for, and he  _ fucking knows it _ !”

They’ve come upon the holding cell Matloff was being held in, and she finally turns to face them. “Let me be clear,” She captures their attention, voice icy. “Little known fact: when it comes to the active status of my BAU agents, Aaron doesn’t argue with me - Aaron  _ can’t  _ argue with me.” She narrows her eyes dangerously, “If either of you walk into this holding cell before my interview of Matloff is finished, I’ll pull you both off the active duty roster for a month before the door can even swing fully open.”

She pushes her way into the interrogation room, leaving two stunned agents behind her.

* * *

 

“Who are you?” Matloff asks tiredly. “I already talked to lawyers and doctors and police. What do you want now?”

Morgan walks up to the one-way mirror as Jane walks up behind the empty chair, her posture almost bored. Derek can’t help but wonder again what they are doing here. What Hotch wanted Jane to do that made her so angry at him for asking.

“My attorney told me not to talk to anyone. Not to say anything.” Matloff continues once his initial question went unanswered, wary.

“I’m not really here to ask questions,” Jane corrects tiredly, hands gripping the chair’s metal back. “In fact, I don’t even want to be here. But I was asked to come all the same, even though it isn’t my job.”

“What is your job, then?” Matloff asks curiously, and Morgan and Rossi exchange glances. This Unsub had barely said anything since waking up, and he’s engaging with Jane within minutes. “Why are you here?”

“Right now, my job is to tell a story,” Jane hedges.

Matloff and the agents both are left blinking in confusion at that, but like always Jane plows through before anyone can get their feet under them.

“There once was a girl,” Jane starts, her posture curling over as she locks her eyes on her hands. “She had no name. She had no face. She had no memories, no past - nothing.”

Morgan watches at Matloff shifts, uncomfortable.

“Now this girl was abandoned and lost.” Jane looks up at Matloff,  “Abandoned by the people who took her identity, lost by the people that wanted to give it back to her. She was left alone and forgotten by everyone in the world.”

“Why?” He asks.

“Because she lost everything she used to be,” Jane answers, sardonic humor dripping from her voice like acid. “Because no one wants a radio that won’t play, or a book that has no words, or a knife that won’t cut...”

“She wasn’t who she used to be,” Matloff finished, eyes on his hands. “Who they said she should be.”

“She was lost for a long time, this girl,” Jane continues, eyes somewhere beyond him, as if Matloff had never spoken. “But like all lost things, she was eventually found. They picked her up and dusted her off, like doll found on the sidewalk after the neighborhood kids go in for dinner. They asked her questions, who she was and where she came from, but she didn’t know.

“She didn’t have the answers They wanted. She didn’t have any answers at all.” Jane pushes off the chair, arms loose as she began to walk aimlessly and slow, studying the room. “Didn’t know the right things to say, the right person to be. So They built her from the ground up, choosing for her - how she cut her hair, how she dressed, how she walked. Everything she didn’t know, They made up answers for her, making the choices for her; crafting her into the image that They wanted - expected.”

Jane sounded bitter. Morgan was unsettled, worry mounting.

“She didn’t even know how old she was, so They gave her an age, too,” Jane laughs, crossing her arms, and Derek feels the tired sound bounce around his head. “And then They found out that she knew things, things about the world - about people and how they ticked - that They could use. She was told by Them, ‘We found you. We took you in and helped you. Now you must help us.’ 

“So They put her in classes, told her what to read and what to learn. What to ask and what to answer. She was the perfect little robot; all you had to do was wind her up and she’d do whatever you asked.” Jane smiled wanly. “Even go through medical school, of all things.”

Rossi’s shoes creak as she shifts, and Morgan can’t tear his eyes away from Jane to check on him.

“This girl,” Matloff, in the brief pause, begins tentatively. “Is she real?”

“I have no reason to lie,” Jane points out dryly. “Would you rather me not finish?”

“No -” Matloff objects, almost desperately, before he collects himself. “I … You can finish.”

Jane smiles, and it breaks Derek’s heart how exhausted she looks. 

“She made it through all the classes They wanted, speeding through too fast because she knew too much,” Jane picks up again. “Until she finally finished her schooling years earlier than They thought she would, and They were so  _ proud _ -” venom drips from the word “- that for her graduation, They decided that she could have a  _ gift _ .”

Jane leans back against the wall, a hand coming up to tug at a lock of hair.

“After years and years of choices being made for her, for who she was and how she lived, They told her: ‘To be a doctor, you must have a name. You may pick your own.’”

Jane laughs humorlessly, and Matloff looks on with sympathy, totally engrossed in her story. 

“ _ You may pick your own _ ,” Jane repeats. “Years and years and  _ years _ of not fighting, of being the little cookie cutter girl who did what she was told and didn’t ask questions, didn’t object, and she finally been given the  _ gift _ of picking her own name.”

“Didn’t they call her something, for all those years?” Matloff asks, disbelieving and confused. “They had to, didn’t they?”

“They called her what people always call people with no name.” Jane snorted, “They called her Jane Doe.”

“Like John Doe.”

Morgan feels Rossi stiften beside him, even more if possible, and let out a low and indescribable sound. When Morgan glances over at him, the older profiler is turning ashen in the low light.

“Just like,” She agrees. “But she said to Them, ‘I’ll keep my name. Why do I need a different one when I’ve used the same for years?’”

Jane’s lip twitch as she continues, eyes dead and voice bitter, “But They laughed at her, all teeth and condescension, and said ‘You can’t be Jane Doe. You’ll have patients come in after accidents and they’ll be Jane Doe. You can’t take that name.’”

“But that’s the name she chose.” Matloff protested, brows furrowed. “They said it was her choice. It  _ was  _ her choice.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Jane shoots down. “It never had been and never would be.”

Morgan takes a moment to glance over at Rossi, the older profiler standing coiled with a hand clamped over his lips as if nauseous. But Jane starts to talk again before he can ask his friend if he was okay.

“The girl knew that if she didn’t fight against them now, she never would. She’d be a pawn on a chess board until the day she died,” Jane continued, eyes distant. “She wasn’t brave. Wasn’t strong. Wasn’t anything at all, because she was too busy pretending to be the perfect little girl, the puddy in everyone’s hands, that she never learned who she really was. If she had bravery, she didn’t know it. If she had strength, she’d never used it.”

Jane ducks her face, lips twisting at her boots, before leaning to rest her head against the wall, boneless. “But she did have the wealth of knowledge she remembered, the only thing that was left to her when the world left her to rust.” Jane continues through heavy lidded eyes. “So she searched in her head, desperately scrambling for any scrap of rebellion she could use.”

“What did she do?” Matloff asks, voce sotto.

“Do you know how many words there are for a deer?” Jane asks rhetorically, posture straightening as she pushed off the wall, eyes on Matloff properly for the first time since she walked in. “There are does, which are the female deer; fawns, which are the baby deer; and then there are bucks, which are the males. Not only, but there are French and German and Old English words for all of them, like cerf or hirsch or Hart …”

Morgan feels his eyes widen, everything suddenly falling into place …

The cryptic remarks, not talking about the past. Tobias Hankel and how she mocked him. How she talked to him in Chicago -

The same way she  _ always _ named herself.

“I never introduced myself, did I?” Jane asks as she drops into the chair, extending a hand to the Blue Ridge Strangler. “Dr. Jane Hart, but They call me Jane.”

* * *

 

Brian Matloff takes her hand hesitantly, as the rest of what this woman was saying caught up to him.

“You’re her,” He mutters faintly, eyes wide. “You’re …”

‘ _ Like me.’ _

“My boss sent me here because he knows that there’s a chance you could be faking the amnesia.” Dr. Hart states bluntly, and Brian can feel the familiar tension building in his gut. “But he also knows that I can read people, I know when they lie to me about their health, their condition. Comes with the medical degree, I suppose,” her lips twitch.

Dr. Hart -  _ Jane _ \- who might be the only person who truly  _ understands _ , if her story was true, locks eyes with him. “You are the first person I have ever told that story,” She tells him, and his breath catches. “A dead girl walking, a stranger in a strange land, an obedient doctor ... I don’t know who I am, never have. I don’t know who you are, either, not really. No one does.”

“But I do know that look in your eye, Brian,” She insists, voice thick. “I saw that look every day for four  _ long _ years. It’s the look where you wonder who you were, who you  _ really were _ . Where all you want is to know if you take your coffee black, or if you prefer tea. If you mother would sing to you as a kid, or if your dad would tuck you in at night. If you got good grades, or only just managed to get by.”

She crosses her hands on the metal table top, leaning forward. 

“But most of all,” Her voice drops. “You want to know how you got each and every mark on your body. If the patch on your knee is from you falling off your bike or tripping over a toy car. If you scraped your knuckles on asphalt or if you bruised them as a schoolyard bully. If the scars are from defending yourself, or being defended against. Your hands, you know they’re covered in blood - you can  _ feel  _ it. But is the blood is yours? Or someone else’s?”

Brian swallows, unable to tear his eyes away from her. Helpless in the onslaught of her words. How far they resonated within him.

“You want to know if you’re the monster under the bed children that makes children call for their mommies and daddies.”

He swallows dryly. Her eyes bore into him, looking into his soul, examining him like a bug under a microscope … or a body under her knife.

“So tell me,” Jane presses. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don’t remember the man you used to be, the phantom that people tell you you were. Tell me that I’m not the only one drowning in a bloody past they fear more than anything to come.”

His mouth is a desert, and it takes a moment to work up the spit to wet it.

“I don’t remember,” he whispers, voice cracking.

She looks at him. Nods once. 

And she gets up, straightens her jacket, and walks out.

* * *

 

Jane is thankful that Morgan and Rossi are silent when she walks out of the room. She doesn’t look at them. Can’t.

They remain in a thick silence until they’ve recovered their things and are approaching their SUV. Jane pulls out her phone, hitting speed dial and placing it against her ear. Hotch picks up on the first ring.

“He’s not faking the amnesia,” she states flatly, and then immediately hangs up.

Jane just takes a moment, her fist curled around the phone and pressed against her forehead, to just close her eyes and  _ breathe _ . Because she knew that talking would hurt. That letting it all out, even to someone who might even  _ understand _ , would be putting salt on a raw, weeping, open wound. But it was so much worse than she could've even imagined.

She flinches when Morgan puts his hand on her shoulder, stiff as he pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, holding her close. Her fingers curl around his bicep automatically, and even through the sleeve of his shirt and the cloth of her gloves she can feel his warmth. His fingers card through the hair at the base of her neck, gentle but firm, and she allows herself to relax into it.

When was the last time someone hugged her? Even Garcia hadn’t … Penny was still too wary, too unsure of where they stood. Had she ever been hugged? 

Could she really never remember the feeling of someone else’s arms around her?

She’d already cried all of her tears. She cried her tears 12 years ago when she woke up scared and alone without even her name. She cried 8 years ago when she broke away and  _ finally _ started to figure out  _ who she was _ . She cried them all, till there was nothing left.

But if she hadn’t, she was sure she would be crying them now.

“When I came to see you, in Boston.” Rossi’s murmurs nearby - voice soft as if he was talking to a skittish deer, his footsteps tapping against the concrete. “You had just gotten away from ‘Them’, hadn’t you? Moved to Boston, so you could make your own choices?”

Jane nods against Morgan’s chest, the knot in her chest loosening as Morgan rubbed circles against her back. 

“That black book, the one that Hotch writes in - that Gideon used to write in?” Morgan continued hesitantly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “They write down things that you remember, don’t they?”

She forces herself to push off of him, pulling away from the comfort, and tucked her phone into a back pocket and as she scrubs at her face. “Yeah,” she confirmed, straightening up. “Sometimes things slip out, but I don’t realize that they do. Aaron keeps track for me.”

“Do you want to know?” Rossi asks, head tilted. “Who you are?”

“I don’t,” She shakes her head. “I don’t want the memories back, I don’t want the life of a whole different person. I just … I just want a name.”

“Okay,” Morgan agrees, voice soft yet determined. “We’ll get you that name.”

Something in his face rings alarm bells in her head, and she can feel her panic rising. “Wait! Don’t -” Jane chokes out, grabbing Morgan desperately.

“Don’t what?” Dave asks, voice level.

“Don’t force it,” Jane pleads, scrambling for words. “I don’t want to know because- because you picked me apart and I don’t -”

“You don’t want to lose what you have now,” Dave finishes for her, stepping forward to peel her fingers off of Morgan’s wrist gently. “And we won’t. We’ll put things we notice in the book, just like Aaron’s been doing.”

“And one day,  _ once you’re ready _ ,” Morgan takes her hand gently, squeezing lightly. “We will all sit down with my Baby Girl and get you that name, okay?”

Jane swallows. “Okay,” She says, collecting herself. “Okay.”

“Then let’s head back, that okay?” Rossi asks gently. “You up for more of Morgan’s terrible driving ability?”

She nods, a small smile on her lips as tension bleeds from her, and they all clamber into the car.

* * *

 

Rossi waits until Jane’s door is closed behind her before he beckons for Morgan to join him in his office, closing his own door firmly after them. Morgan pulls out his phone, finding the desired contact and putting it on speakerphone as it rings. The artificial tone sounds three times before it’s picked up.

“ _ I presume this is about Jane, _ ” Hotch’s voice filters through the speaker, sounding resigned. “ _ Or more accurately, why no one ever told the team. _ ”

“We can’t help her if we don’t know what to look for, Aaron,” Rossi criticizes. “Who knows how far we would’ve gotten if you’d  _ told  _ us.”

“ _ And pick her apart? Or treat her like she’s made of glass, or maybe a piece of meat? _ ” Hotch bites back, “ _ Because that is exactly what she  _ never  _ wants to happen. She’s fought so hard to figure out who she is. We can’t destroy all of that progress, not for a name. _ ”

“So what, we profile our friend on the side?” Morgan bites scathingly. “In between serial killers and arsonists we catalogue everything she does - behind her back - so that she can maintain some illusion of  _ normalcy _ ? Does she even like being called ‘Jane’?”

“ _ No _ ,” Hotch admits, and Morgan cradles his face in his palm in frustration. “ _ But she refuses to use any other name until she either remembers or finds out her own. That’s the one thing she has absolute control over, and we can’t take that away from her. _ ”

“Speaking of her ‘lack of control’,” Rossi buts in, voice as smooth and dangerous as a Mafia Don. “Who is this ‘They’. I think I’d like to meet them.”

“ _ Get in line _ ,” Hotch growls low and dark, and Morgan snorts in agreement. “ _ But I don’t know, not in detail. Best I can tell - and from what Gideon and I have pieced together - she woke up with no memories twelve years ago on the outskirts of, or nearby, some town, a small one in the rural South. She gets taken in by the town - the Church specifically, as Gideon thought - and they press so many expectations and standards on her that all she can do is play along and do what they say, because they - intentionally or not - manipulate her into thinking that she has nowhere else to go. _ ” 

“They ship her off to med school so she can ‘pay back her keep’ once they realize her intelligence,” Rossi infers, crossing his arms in thought. “She realizes what the rest of the world has to offer, and resents the town. She plays along, goes the specialization that would be of the least use to them - the criminal and forensic route - and then pays them back as quickly as possible before breaking all ties.”

“She gets out,” Morgan continues. “Travels, doing odd jobs, and then lands in Boston.”

“ _ And then Gideon finds her, _ ” Hotch finishes.

“Jason said that he found Jane at a crime scene of a murder that the locals thought was connected to another two. She was trying to get to her apartment, and she was arguing with a detective insisting that there were no connections between that crime scene and the last two, rattling off a list of reasons that the MOs might’ve been the same, but the scenes were completely different.” Rossi snorted, “She just wanted to get to bed after a long shift at the clinic, but some greenhorn was flaunting the serial killer angle to try and impress her.”

“ _ From the way Gideon told it, _ ” Aaron buts in, amused. “ _ Jane, exhausted and grumpy, broke down the entire crime scene and tore apart their entire argument for the connection by citing newspaper articles, what she saw in front of her, and the yarn that the newbie was spinning at her. She turned out to be right, and Gideon managed to point the PD in the right direction before they caught both murderers. _ ”

“Did Gideon know?” Morgan asked, cupping his chin in one hand. “That she’s an amnesiac? When he tried to recruit her.”

“ _ No, but he figured it out, _ ” Hotch admits. “ _ He confronted her about a year after she joined, but she never actually explained anything. Jane insisted that she was never asked, so she never lied, and that it was none of our business. When Gideon pushed, Jane impressed that all she wants is her name, and Gideon and I begin to record her oddities so she could finally have one of her own. _ ”

“But you’re not just going to stop at her name, are you?” Morgan asks, disbelieving. “She made it sound like her past had a lot of messed up shit.”

“ _ She doesn’t want to be told, _ ” Hotch lays down reasonably. “ _ But she hasn’t told us not to look. _ ”

“ _ That’s _ what she is afraid of,” Rossi realizes.

“ _ What _ ?” Hotch asks.

“Jane’s been on edge, this entire case.” Rossi explains, hands waving. “At first I thought it was because the two of you were fighting, and then I thought it was because she had to talk about her lack of a past, or that the case involved amnesia - but it’s none of that.”

“What are you getting at?” Morgan asks, brows furrowing.

“She said something, at the prison,” Rossi continues. “Something about marks on skin on blood on hands - she’s afraid that she’s a bad person, a criminal. That her past was like Matloff’s, a series of horrible crimes that she doesn’t remember committing.”

“But that’s not possible,” Morgan protests. “It’s Jane. She might not be some Mother Teresa, but she’s incredibly kind. She loosens up when she’s around friends, around us.”

“ _ But Matloff is a perfectly normal, completely average person in his own mind. _ ” Hotch points out grimmly. “ _ He can’t believe that he’s the Blue Ridge Strangler. He doesn’t see himself as someone able to commit those crimes. _ ”

“Hotch,” Morgan protests, disbelieving. “You can’t be saying -”

“ _ I’m not saying anything, Morgan. _ ” The Unit Chief cut him off, voice grim. “ _ But just like Matloff, we can’t bend the law based off memory. _ ”

“But she hasn’t done anything,” Morgan insists. “And even if she has, most statutes of limitations have passed by now.”

“ _ I believe that the woman who uses the name Doctor Jane Hart is one of the kindest people to have ever walked this Earth, _ ” Hotch insists. “ _ But even the kindest people can be pushed far beyond their morals. _ ”

Silence reigns, and Morgan can’t look at Rossi - or even the phone.

“ _ I should go, _ ” Hotch signs off. “ _ Call me if you find anything new. _ ”

* * *

 

“ _ Dr. Hart,” _ Jane answers on the first ring, and Hotch sends out a silent thanks to any deity out there that she did. 

“I need you to come down to the Parkway, now.” Hotch orders, eyes on the road ahead of him. “Matloff is recovering his memories and assaulted an officer. He’s on the run with a gun and a car and you’ve established a neutral position with him.”

“ _ I’ll be there in fifteen minutes _ ,” Jane declares grimmly.

Hotch hangs up, sharing a momentary glance with Morgan. There was no predicting how this would go down.

* * *

 

“That’s him,” Hotch calls out, and Jane follows his gaze to where Matloff is kneeling in the grass, someone in his arms.

“He’s got someone with him,” Jane grimaces. “She’s not moving.”

“All right,” One of the LEOs rushes. “Let’s move in.”

“No, wait.” Hotch halts him, an arm out to stop him in his tracks. “If we rush him, he might try to kill her and himself.”

“Send me in,” Jane insists. “He knows me, and if the floodgates in his head are open then he needs a trusting face right now.”

“Okay,” Hotch agrees warily, eyes on his friend. “Okay. But you have your gun trained on him the whole time.”

She nods, drawing her glock, and he turns to give orders to the rest of the LEOs as she approaches Matloff cautiously.

“Brian?” Jane calls out, voice level. “Brain, I need to see your hands.”

“Stop!” Matloff calls out desperately, turning enough that Jane can see the decaying corpse in his arms. “Stop right there, please!”

“Brian, who is she?” She asks gently, lowering her aim and continuing to approach slowly.

“She -” Brain chokes, tears thick. “She was my first. The minute my feet hit the ground, I knew right where to find her.”

Matloff looks up at her, desperate and distraught and a thousand other things. Jane swallows thickly.

“I killed them.” He confessed, “Oh god …”

“You remember,” Jane asks rhetorically, grimm and understanding. “You remember.”

“Everything,” Matloff chokes. “I don’t want to. I hope you never do.”

Jane flinches, and she can feel Hotch’s eyes on her from across the field, debating whether to come help. “I don’t want to either, Brian.” Jane confesses, “All I want is my name. I’m too afraid of what else I would find.”

“Every moment,” The Blue Ridge Strangler exhales shakily. “Every … tiny detail. I remember. But … it’s still not real. It’s like … the memories belong to someone else.”

“Maybe they do, Brian.” Jane smiles sadly. “But you still have to pay. Just like we all have to pay.”

“Wouldn’t you run?” He asks, desperately locking eyes with her. “If you were me? If you remembered something like this?”

“What good would that do?” Jane asks brutally, ripping off the bandaid. “Running away is useless, Brian. Running toward something is better.”

“What do I have to run toward?” He asks, hand clenching around the grip of the stolen gun. “I’ve got nothing. I’m just going to be put to death.”

“You’ve got a mother who loves you,” Jane reminds him. “And courts who may be merciful. You’ve got memories of birthdays and holidays and summer vacations to keep you living. What else do you need?”

“I don’t want to be the same man,” He confesses, hands shaking and eyes on the dead girl in his arms. “I  _ don’t _ .”

“You aren’t,” Jane assures him. “So prove it by putting the gun down and doing the  _ right thing _ .”

The gun falls numbly from his hands, and the LEOs fall in as Jane tears away her gaze. She holsters her gun, locking eyes with Hotch before turning toward the path and walking away.

At least she isn’t running.

* * *

 

“Alcohol,” Jane groans as they pack up the case, preparing to clear out of Hillenbrand’s office space. “I need alcohol. I need so much alcohol.”

Hotch raises an eyebrow, shuffling the case files in his hands, but doesn’t respond. Spinner, on the other hand, looks over at her bemusedly. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jane? We do have work tomorrow.”

“I am a grown ass woman with a liver of steel,” Jane declares. “And I am also  _ so  _ not above blackmail, so you both are coming.”

“Jane …” Hotch starts, lips twisting sourly.

“Nope,” Jane shuts him up, shoving the last of her files into her satchel. “Nopeity nope nope. I have maxed out on emotional crap today and doubly maxed maturity. I need alcohol, and this damn job makes a girl paranoid about drinking alone.”

“One drink,” Hotch relents, and Reid sends him a knowing grin. “And you are not driving.”

“Fine by me, Aaron.” Jane grins, victorious. “Fine. By. Me.”

* * *

 

“ _ Yes, my Chocolate Adonis? _ ” Garcia answers, and Morgan grins. “ _ I’ll have you know I’m currently off the clock. _ ”

“Heya, Baby Girl,” He greets. “I need a favor.”

“ _ Oooooh, my favorite, _ ” Garcia jokes. “ _ But are you sure you wouldn’t rather warm my bed for me? _ ”

“Careful, you’ll get me in trouble,” He laughs, shaking his head as he levels his gaze over the emptying bullpen to the door of Jane’s office. “I just need a personal file of a member of the team, but I want you to keep it quiet for me.”  
“ _Okay …?_ ” She agrees uncertainty. “ _Is everyone okay_.”

“Oh, yeah, everyone’s fine,” He hurries to assure her. “Just wanted to check up on something, but I don’t want to worry her.”

“ _ Her? _ ” Garcia repeats. “ _ Who do you want the file of? _ ”

“Can you get me everything you can find on Jane?” Morgan asks, mouth tasting foul. “Don’t dig too much. I’d just like everything you already have.”

“ _ Ummm … okay, sure, _ ” Garcia agrees warily.

Ending the call quickly after that, saying goodnight and exchanging flirting taunts by reflex. He pockets his phone, surveying the empty room.

He hoped that he wouldn’t regret doing this.


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sam’s the bomber,” Is all Hotch gets out before they’re both snapping around to face the approaching ambulance, sirens blazing.

“So do you want to tell me anything?” 

JJ looks up with a guilty start, Jane smirking lightly at her from the doorway to her office. The Media Liaison smiles, or rather grimaces, at her raven haired friend, a hand coming up to tug at a lock of hair behind her ear. Jane steps into her office, closing the door behind her and strolling up to JJ. The doctor takes her wrist in hand to check over her vitals, and JJ fidgets through the entirety. Even though she knows the looks that Jane is shooting her are more amused than irritated, it’s still nerve wracking.

“You’re not far along enough for me to be pissed,” Jane assures her, retracting her hand. “Yet.”

“I was going to tell you!” JJ blurts out, unable to contain her words. “It’s just I only just told Will a week ago and -”

“JJ,” Jane cuts her off, shaking her head with a smile. “You’re fine. It’s your first, and you’re not primarily a field agent. If I found out two weeks from now or you were Emily, you’d be so beyond dead. But it isn’t and you’re not, so you’re  _ good _ .”

The blonde nodded, still chalk full of nervous energy, and fights to keep her gaze on one spot. Jane, ever observant Dr. Hart, hums in amusement. “What is it?” She asks gently, mostly masking her humor. “You’ve got ants in your pants there, chica. What’s up?”

“How - how do I even do this right?” JJ almost pleads, worry bursting through the flood gates even as her voice stays soft. “I mean, I know what my mom said about taking care of myself and I know what my doctor said about stress but I -”

“Whoa!” Jane cuts her off, holding up a hand. “Lemme get something to snack on before we dive into the medical mumbo-jumbo, yeah?”

JJ blushes, and watches embarrassed as Jane exits. 

* * *

 

“Pregnant?” Aaron questions her later, in the middle of the New York field office, clearly trying his best to suppress the hurt he was feeling. “And you  _ knew _ ?”

“Of course I knew, Aaron.” Jane rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “What kind of - a) woman and b)  _ doctor _ \- would I be if I couldn’t recognize the pregnancy of someone I see and work with nearly every day?”

“I didn’t know,” Hotch comments, clearly a little miffed. “And you didn’t tell me.  _ She _ didn’t tell me.”

“Not my right, bucko.” Jane reminds him, an eyebrow raised. “Pesky HIPAA laws, and all that.”

“That’s not -” Aaron cuts himself off forcefully, reigning himself in. “Why wouldn’t she tell me? The team?”

“Because she is surrounded by people that can give a two hour lecture on every detail of her life,” Jane explains bluntly, shaking her head. “Because you all know not only what she does and what she is most likely to do, but also why she is who she is and who she is likely to become. The team knows things about her - even before she does and in far more detail - and goddamnit Aaron that can grate on anyone. You’re luckily JJ, Garcia, and I have made it this far, honestly.”

“Is it really that bad?” Hotch asks quietly after a moment, sounding weary.

“Yes,” Jane admits freely. “They’re lucky. They at least remember what shaped them. There’s a reason that I don’t want what little of my life I do have to be picked apart, Aaron. And it’s not just out of fear. It’s about a level of privacy that no one can ever really achieve within the four walls of the BAU.”

“How do you put up with it?” Hotch asks hesitantly.

“You all make the irritation and violations worth it,” Jane shrugs. “Now do you want to catch these shooters or …?”

* * *

 

Joyner smirks at Jane as she opens the door for them, and it takes a considerable amount of effort for the doctor to not slink around to the other side of Hotch and hide behind the Unit Chief’s broad shoulders. Hotch, for his part, looks between the two of them with far too much amusement to be fair, and if it wasn’t for their circumstances - ie, the pseudo-terrorist cell running through New York City - she was sure the man would be grinning at her like a fool. Why people ever take the man seriously is beyond her: Agent Stick-Up-His-Ass can give way to Aaron the Immature Fool quick as a flash.

She tries to ignore the blonde agent as they all walk to the SUV, instead imagining what it would be like to actually sleep 8 hour nights. You know, like people do in fairy tales and in the movies. Fantasy, of course - complete fiction.

“Aww, you’ve got such a lovely little doctor, Aaron,” The British-American Agent coos, clearly enjoying Jane’s discomfort. “Almost like a little doll, but with more blushing and less frills.”

“Little?” Jane chokes out, cheeks flaming. “I am not little. And I don’t wear frills.”

“Exactly my point,” Joyner laughs. “No frills. And you’re under 5’4” and less than 130 pounds. I reserve the right to call you little.”

“Jane, you know she’s right.” Hotch - the deadman - smirks at her, and she begins to plot his imminent demise. “You aren’t exactly a towering figure.”

“So help me -” Jane begins, stopping and twisting abruptly to properly protest -

But the explosion cuts her off.

* * *

 

Her ears are ringing.

Someone’s touching her, and she flinches,  _ hard _ . She tries to scramble away, but something’s wrong with her leg - her thigh. Instead, she pushes herself off the ground, her hands protesting the glass and gravel digging into them as she blinks blood out of her eyes. 

There’s a teenager - no, a young man - who’s shaking her. 

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks, and she has to struggle to make out his words. She raises a hand to her forehead, trying to quench the blood flowing from her hairline. 

“Aaron,” She gasps, memories flooding back. “ _ Aaron - _ ”

“Jane!” He hears him call back, and she shoved herself up - using the stranger as a crutch. “Jane, it’s Kate!”

“ _ Shit _ ,” She swears, hobbling over to Joyner and Aaron, wincing as she puts weight on her leg. That’s not how her quads should feel. “Shit shit  _ shit _ .”

“She’s …” Aaron struggles for words. “She’s -”

“Shut up and take your shirt off,” She orders, cutting over him as she collapses to the pavement. Wordlessly, he removes his tie and undoes his shirt, passing his button-down to her as she begins checking Joyner over. Her hands are shaking, and she forces herself to shove back the shock before it sets. Aaron and Joyner are talking, but Jane is entirely too focused on managing to open the top of her satchel. Finally she wrenches it open, and begins to work.

* * *

 

“Breaking news now,” The TV announces, and Reid and Rossi both turn back to face it, bracing themselves for the worst. “We are just getting an update. The bomb is now reported to have been inside an SUV. A black SUV parked just blocks from 26 Federal Plaza …”

Reid and Rossi lock eyes, and Dave practically lunges for the phone, dialling immediately. 

* * *

 

“Agent Rossi?” Garcia answers the phone, scrambling to get seated as the Command Post’s desk. “We heard there was some kind of explosion.”

_ “Where are you? _ ” The older profiler demands.

“I just walked into the CCTV Command Post.” She tells him, eyes scanning over the numerous screens.

“ _ Can you see anything? _ ”

“I literally just walked through the door,” She repeats, sitting down and pulling out her laptop, juggling her phone as she goes.

“ _ We just got the news it was an SUV that exploded, _ ” Rossi informs her, voice bleak. “ _ A black SUV within blocks of the Federal Plaza. _ ”

“Oh God,” She breathes.

 “ _ Now do you have eyes there? _ ” He asks.

“I, uh - yeah, yeah,” She scrambles. “I got like 300 cameras right there. Give me a sec.”

“ _ I’m here with Reid, but I don’t know where anyone else is _ .”

She swallows dryly, fingers flying.

“ _ And Garcia, _ ” Rossi says just before he hangs up. “ _ Find them. _ ”

She and Lisa work at lightning speed, the NYC technician finding cameras going outwards from the Plaza and the FBI analyst desperately punching numbers into her phone.

* * *

 

Surveying the damage. Giving Joyner a shot of painkillers. She and Aaron turning Kate on her side to find the source of the bleeding. Having Aaron tear his shirt into strips. Locating the bleeding. Using forceps to clamp the bleeding. Emergency but temporary repairs to the anterior superior mesenteric artery -

“Get me an ambulance,” She orders at some point, hands bloodied and leather gloves long ago discarded in favor of plastic surgical ones. 

“They won’t come,” She hears at some point.

“Keep her awake,” She orders Hotch.

She’s too focused on what’s in front of her. Her awareness is shot, she can’t even pay attention to Joyner or Hotch or whatever they’re saying or yelling or anything. She doesn’t even notice that Morgan has run up to them, crouching in front of her, until his hand is on her shoulder.

“Can we carry her?” He’s asking her, and it worries her how long it takes her to process his words. She glances down at her leg, realizing the sheer amount of blood pooling under her, and quickly takes off her jacket and strips off her shirt to tie a tourniquet - using Hotch’s tie to hold it in place.

“No,” She remembers to answer. “Not without a stretcher. If we get a stretcher, we can move her.”

They’re all is staring at her, and she’s too dizzy to think about why they would be, but Hotch suddenly is nodding, turning to Morgan and the other man.

“Get a stretcher,” He orders them. “Go to the barricade and get a stretcher, come back for us.”

Distantly, Jane realizes that Morgan is answering his phone, but her tourniquet is loosening and she has to dive back into her bag for some proper bandages for herself. She’s distracted, and when Morgan runs after a retreating Sam - was that his name? - she’s completely missed the exchange.

“Sam’s the bomber,” Is all Hotch gets out before they’re both snapping around to face the approaching ambulance, sirens blazing.

* * *

 

JJ finally gets to the Command Center, striding up to where she can see her team. 

“Emily,” She calls, grabbing the brunette’s attention.

“Oh thank God,” Her friend breathes in relief. “Where’s Will?”

“He’s stuck at the airport. As soon as I heard, I went straight to 26 Fed. They’re evacuating the building,” The Media Liaison explains, scanning the room. “ Where is everyone?”

“Morgan’s all right, but there’s no word from Hotch,” Reid supplies, but any response is silenced by Garcia appearing on a nearby screen.

“ _ The bomber! _ ” She exclaims. “ _ The bomber! Derek’s chasing after him _ .”

“What?” Rossi asks, bracing his arms against the table as he leans forward to better see the screen.

“ _ The bomb - it was in Kate’s SUV, or under it, _ ” Penelope stumbles, worry muddling her words. “ _ Hotch and Jane are out there with her. He seems okay, but Kate looks really hurt. _ ”

“And Jane?” Reid asks worriedly, craning his head to see over Rossi better. “How does she look?”

“ _ I - _ ” Garcia’s voice catches. “ _ I don’t know. She got thrown pretty hard, but she made it over to Kate and Hotch by -”  _ The Tech Analyst swallows back her fury and horror, “- _ By leaning on the bomber and limping over. There was a lot of blood. _ ”

JJ pushes back her worry, thankful that Rossi keeps the investigation moving forward.

“Where was Kate’s SUV parked?” He asks.

“ _ Two blocks East of Federal Plaza, _ ” Garcia responds, latching onto the distraction. The team scatters through the room, and JJ watches as Reid grabs a marker and begins to mark up the map, feeling useless herself.

“Two blocks East and they target Kate’s SUV?” Emily asks, brows furrowing.

“Have you IDed the bomber?” Rossi asks, and Penelope shakes her head.

“ _ Lisa’s running him and dead guy through VICAP. _ ”

“Call Homeland Security,” Rossi orders, locking eyes with JJ. “They should be at all the mruder sites. See if they found anything.”

She nods, relieved to have  _ something _ to do. “I’m on it.”

* * *

 

There’s something wrong with the EMT.

They’ve loaded into the ambulance, and she and the EMT are working on Joyner in the back while Hotch drives. Something’s wrong, though, and if Jane hadn’t lost so much blood she’d be able to put her finger on it. He’s trained but …

“Get me five bags of plasma, three for her and two for me.” She orders him, and shoves at the man’s shoulder when he hesitates to obey fully, only reluctantly drawing out two. “I need two and she needs three. I can’t reach them.  _ Get the bags _ .”

“We don’t have enough,” He tells her, his eyes ice cold. 

“What do you mean _ you don’t have enough _ ?” She demands, and Hotch shoots glanes rapidly over his shoulder, alternating between keeping his attention on the road ahead and assessing the man critically. “Ambulances should be fully equipped at all times to accommodate major traumas and accidents - especially now.  _ You should have enough _ .”

“Why don’t you have enough?” Hotch asks severely, eyes narrowing. “And where’s your partner  _ really? _ ”

Recognizing the look on Hotch’s face, the tone of his voice, she slips a hand into her bag. A myriad of emotions flit across the man’s face as she finds what she’s looking for, slowly working her thumbnail under the lip of the cap. His eyes snap to her as he catches her movement, and she barely shifts before the man lunges for her - a knife slipping out of his waistband.

Hotch yells wordlessly, slamming on the breaks as the EMT tackles her. He barely gets a hand around her throat before she’s shoved a needle into the meat of his thigh, pumping him full of enough sedatives to down a small water buffalo. She pulls his hand off her, jerking harshly as pain shot up her leg.

“Drive,” She coughs out, shoving the unconscious man aside as she sees Joyner begin to regain consciousness. “ _ Drive _ !”

And with one last worried look thrown over his shoulder, Aaron complies.

* * *

 

“We’re directing all emergencies over to Lenox Hill,” The Secret Service man orders when he stops his ambulance. 

“I’m SSA Hotchner,” Hotch tells him, the beginnings of hysteria creeping up. “I’ve got SSA Joyner onboard, she was injured in a bomb blast at Federal Plaza.”

“Credentials,” The man orders. 

“I left my jacket at Federal Plaza.” Hotch begins, eyes flitting toward the Emergency entrance.

“I appreciate that -”

“Oh for  _ fucks sake _ .” Jane gripes from the back, clambering toward the front, shoving her credentials at Hotch to show to the man. The buff man looks them over, scrutinizing them carefully.

“I’m sorry, Agents, but this hospital is on a strict bypass.” The man says unrepentantly, still examining the ID.

“You shut down a hospital in the middle of a  _ terrorist attack _ ?” Jane demands furiously, looking ready to chew nails and spit bullets. “Because of a  _ bypass _ ?’

“We’re redirecting all emergencies -”

_ “FUCK!” _ Jane cuts him off, throwing herself back into the back as Kate begins to crash. “Get us through  _ RIGHT THE FUCK NOW _ !”

_ “Please _ ,” Hotch pleads.

The man looks into his eyes. They get waved through, and Hotch wastes no time shifting into gear and speeding up the ramp.

“Good. Fucking thing,” Jane pants from the back over the compressions she was giving Kate. “You didn’t mention. The possible terrorist. In the back.”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” He grits, hurtling toward the ER entrance.

* * *

 

When the back of the ambulance gets opened up, Jane immediately starts shooting off orders. “ _ Someone _ get that EMT in cuffs,” She demands as they pull the gurney out of the bus. “Gaurd him and put him on suicide watch - he’s a fucking  _ terrorist  _ so if you lose him it will  _ not  _ be on my head.”

Blanching, two of the medical staff branch off to follow her orders as Hotch follows the gurney into the ER. Jane begins to rapidfire explain Joyner’s condition, “ - BP 50 over 30. Bradycardic with severe spinal spinal injury -”

Eventually someone gets in front of her, switching her hands for theirs as strong hands pulled her off the gurney. She struggles, but she’s weaker than she usually is and all she’s doing is aggravating her side. She winces, dropping a hand down to her leg, and applies pressure once she finds the bandages soaked through with blood.

“Ma’m?” A voice asks her, and the arms around her tighten as a spell of vertigo hits. “Ma’m, are you -”

Then sound blurs out, and she can feel the adrenaline leaving her. She pries open her eyes - which she hadn’t realized she’d closed - and sees Hotch crash down to the floor. 

She lunges for him, hand outstretched and yell strangled and wordless, but the strong arm around her waist stops her practically midair, pulling her back against a firm chest. And between the jerking motion and the blood loss, she is pushed over the edge and she sinks into unconsciousness.

* * *

 

“Hotch, Kate, and Jane are all at St. Barkley’s hospital,” JJ tells the team, walking over. 

“How are they?” Rossi asks, seeing the worry on the blonde’s face.

“Well, Kate and Jare are both in surgery and Hotch is in the ER,” JJ elaborates. “Morgan’s on his way down now. But that’s not all.” 

Once she’s sure she has everyone’s attention, she continues. “As they came in, Jane told the hospital staff that the EMT that came in with them - who was drugged and unconscious - was a terrorist, so hospital security has him locked down.”

The entire table starts at that, minds racing.

Then there is a scramble for the door.

* * *

 

Morgan rushes through the hospital hallways, eyes landing on a doctor sitting behind a desk. “Doc,” He calls, catching his attention and flashing his credentials. “FBI. How’re Aaron Hotchner and Jane Hart?”

“He’s got acute acoustic trauma in his right ear, and I pulled shrapnel from his leg,” The doctor begins, snapping the chart in his hand shut. “And she just -”

He was interrupted by a loud protest coming from nearby - one that sounded like a disoriented Hotch - and both Morgan and the doctor get up, rushing to the partitioned area. Hotch is standing there in a hospital gown, looking beat up but incredibly stubborn, arguing with a nurse who was trying to get him back into bed.

“Agent Hotchner, lie down,” The doctor tries to order him loudly. 

“Doctor, I’m alright,” Hotch insists, looking around - searching for something.

“Hotch, stop it,” Morgan soothes his Unit Chief. “Just calm down.”

“Where’s Kate?” Hotch asks, still looking around. “And where’s Jane? She should be here.”

“Kate’s in surgery,” Morgan tells him, trying to direct him back into bed. “And I don’t know where Jane is.”

“Dr. Hart is fine,” The doctor placates him. “She’s  _ fine _ . She just came out of emergency surgery on her leg and side, but her head CT just came back clean and she’s on track to a good recovery. She’s stable.”

“Where - ugh, hospital gown.” Hotch grumbles, trying to get further from his bed before Morgan stops his movement. “Oh for - where are my clothes, please?!” Hotch yells, “I need to get dressed and -”

Morgan waves the doctor away as he holds the injured profiler in place. “Hotch, your go bag is on it’s way,” Morgan tries to focus him. “And you need to slow down, to rest.”

“The EMT,” Hotch finally focuses, hands gripping Morgan’s upper arms. “He’s with the bomber. He was gonna kill Jane. He was gonna kill  _ us  _  - where is he?”

“He’s drugged and locked up,” Morgan assures him. “We just need to figure out what he was doing in that uniform and in that ambulance.”

“Get everyone over here,” Hotch orders, but Morgan shakes his head.

“I’m not going to make that call until you get your ass into that bed,” He tells his boss, firm.

“Morgan, I have to check on Jane,” Hotch tries to barter, clearly realizing it was futile but too stubborn and worried to give in. “And it’s a matter of  _ national security _ .”

“So if it’s that important then you should really get back on that bed,” Morgan barters. “I’ll make the call, check on Jane, get a full report from the doctors, and then come update you, okay?”

Hotch finally nods, giving in, and Morgan whips out his phone to get ahold of JJ.

* * *

 

When Ezra Cole, the on call ER trauma nurse at St. Barkley’s, first saw the woman she was screaming about terrorists while pumping life into a bloodied and broken blonde woman. She was covered in blood and soot, black hair tangled and coming loose from her tie, and shooting off facts and orders like the most experienced of trauma surgeons. There was no doubt that she was a doctor.

She was wearing a tank top that exposed her arms and neck, and it took a moment for the nurse to tear his eyes away from her. Her tanned skin was covered in blood, and that was disgusting on its own, but what was truly disturbing was the patchwork of scars webbing up from her wrists, up her shoulders, and under the edge of her shirt. The tips of something green and red - most likely a tattoo - poked out from the back of her collar, wrapping partially around her neck and encircling her scarred bicep. It was as if some deranged psychopath had used her body as a canvas for some kind of sick artwork across her skin, and the sheer number of cuts and scars made it impossible for them to all be self inflicted.

Cole had to swallow back the bile that rose at the macabre image the woman made. The stories that her skin told, the questions they brought up. It was vile.

As they rolled the gurney toward the OR, Cole caught a glimpse of the woman’s - Agent’s - leg and immediately ordered someone to take over compression for her. She didn’t seem to register that she was even injured, as even as he pulled her off of the other patient in order to treat her ... she didn’t seem to focus on him or her own health at all, only on the blonde woman. She struggled against him, and despite her being a good 8 inches shorter and 80 pounds lighter than him - Cole was no small man - part of him thought that if she hadn’t been weakened from blood loss he would’ve lost his grip on her. Especially when she lunged for the dark haired man when he collapsed. Her going limp from an adrenaline crash and blood loss was a blessing in disguise; it was possibly the only reason that he could get her on a gurney herself and roll her into an OR.

For now he was checking on her post-op. Her prognosis was good, and she would be back on her feet in two weeks or so. Plus, she looked far healthier now that the blood and dust was washed off of her, even if she was stuck in a hospital gown in it’s rather ugly pale blue color.

In a stroke of impressive and slightly unreal timing, the burly dark skinned man who flashed an official looking badge at him walked in just as she was beginning to stir. Curious about the woman and hunting for a little gossip, Ezra rechecked her vitals … because he wanted to be sure of his numbers, of course.

“Oh, Jane - thank God,” The man buff breathed out in relief, glancing at Cole. “She gonna be alright?”

“Should be, yeah,” Cole nods, and he sees the man relax a fraction. “She had extensive trauma to - and shrapnel in - her leg and her left side, but we managed to get it all and fix up the damage for the most part. She’ll be bed ridden for a week, but she’ll be back on her feet in two and free of any aid in a month or so. Lot’s of PT, but overall a good recovery.”

Jane - Dr. Jane Hart, as her chart said - took that moment to groan. “Ugh, what hit me?” She asks, looking over at her friend, her eyes at half mast and clouded with medication. “A truck?”

The dark skinned man came up to the side of her bed and gently took her hand, taking in her muddled gaze with narrowed eyes. “Hey, what’s she on, man?” He asks, almost accusatory.

“You do realize that she just had a major surgery?” Cole asks him incredulously, raising an eyebrow. “Would you expect us  _ not _ to put her on meds?”

“Oooooh,” Dr. Hart pulls out, eyes drawing together. “Bree’s  _ aaaaaaaaangry _ . That’s funny, you don’t get angry a lot.”

“What?” The man’s - Bree? - eyes furrow. “What did you call me?”

“Are you not Bree?” Cole can’t help but ask.

“No, my name’s Derek,” The agent informs him distractedly. “SSA Derek Morgan - Hey, Jane. What did you call me?”

“‘Called you ‘Bree’,” Jane repeats for him dutifully, and Cole realizes that he’d given up the pretence of checking her vitals without realizing. He resumes hastily.

“Why did you call me ‘Bree’?” Agent Morgan asks gently, but also really intensely. “My name’s Derek. We work together - you call me LeFey sometimes, do you remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Jane nods with the confidence of someone heavily inebriated. “Yup. You’re LeFey ‘cuz you’re also a Morgan, like with King Arthur. And it’s funny ‘cuz we have a round table. But you’re not a bad guy. Or magic. Or a woman.”

“Then why did you call me Bree?” Morgan coaxes, with a seriousness that seemed out of place. “Do you know a Bree?”

“No - I lost my Bree. You’re like him, but I didn’t lose you yet,” Jane chokes out heart wrenchingly, eyes tearing up as she visibly gets upset. “He was the bestest little brother ever and then one day I lost him, and they lost me, and now I’m not even a sister anymore. I’m not an anything anymore. Bree’s gone an’ I can’t get him back. ”

“Look, man,” Cole clears his throat awkwardly, wary to interrupt something that seemed to be so important for the man. “I should’ve called Dr. Byrne when she first woke up, but I didn’t and if she comes in with you agitating Dr. Hart then there goes my job. So I have to ask you to leave.”

For half a second Agent Morgan looked like he was about to whip out the gun Cole could see on his belt and shoot him just so he could keep talking to his drugged up friend, but he nods his head reluctantly and turns sharply on his heel.

Warily watching him go, he waits cautiously until the Agent was out of the ER before going to hunt down Dr. Byrne.

* * *

 

“Are okay?” Emily asks Hotch concernedly, watching as the Unit Chief begins to strap a bulletproof vest to his chest.

“Yeah,” Hotch relents, fumbling with the velcro straps. “I just want to understand why I’m still alive.”

“I think the idea was to maim, not to kill,” Reid contributes, his puppy dog eyes soaking in the image of their battered boss. 

“Did you identify Sam, the bomber?” Hotch asks, dark eyebrows furrowed. “Or the EMT?”

Emily shakes her head, but it’s Reid who answers again. “Garcia put Sam, the EMT, and the other dead unsub in every known database. Nothing.”

“Why this approach?” Emily asks, pointing out the elephant in the room. “So much effort was put into this attack on the three of you. The bomb going off before you reach the car, Sam sticking around.”

“The EMT aiding you two but trying to eliminate Jane once his cover is blown,” Rossi picks up. “It doesn’t make sense. I mean, we know how terror cells evolve. They learn from one campaign to the next. But this?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Emily sees Morgan walk in distractedly. She narrows her eyes at him, worried by his body language.

“This cell targeted a lone SUV where the only people on the street are three federal agents,” Hotch says, following his chain of thought. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“If it’s not multiple targets like we profiled,” Morgan contributes, hiding his earlier distraction. “It’s one target. One target, one bomb.”

“Did you ever find Sam’s cell phone?” Hotch asks distractedly, dabbing at his ear with a swatch of gause.

“Yes,” Morgan verifies. “Garcia confirmed that it was a disposable that only called one number six times - your EMT friend.”

“But why?” Hotch asks, eyes going distant as his thoughts raced. “Why would he work to ensure that three federal agents that they targeted would make it to a hospital?”

“In a city on lockdown, an ambulance with its sirens blaring and lights on?” Emily points out. “You would get through every roadblock virtually uncontested.”

“And straight into a hospital with a bypass order on it,” Hotch realizes, eyes wide.

* * *

 

When Jane wakes up fully, she’s alone. And her arms are exposed.

She suppresses a groan, knowing that if anyone on her team had seen her - as they no doubt have - she was going to get a lot of questions and/or a distinct  _ lack  _ of questions in the near future.  _ Shit _ . She had been doing  _ so well _ .

She pushed herself up slowly, hitting the handy buttons after a second to adjust the angle of her bed. On the table next to her - rather lumpy - hospital cot is her go bag, and Jane practically lunges for it. Removing and tossing aside her IV - not particularly fond of any form of pain meds -  and astutely ignoring her pain, she pulls out a suitably concealing outfit and gets changed quickly, snagging her chart as she finished pulling her shirt over her head. 

She had just finished reading it over when Reid and Rossi walk in, both of them immediately adapting exasperated expressions when they see she’s fully dressed - even wearing boots. At their silent looks of judgement, she tapped a fingernail on her chart imperially.

“I’m fine,” Jane insists dryly, and rolls her eyes at her colleagues disbelieving looks. “Their bedridden threshold is based on those who haven’t experienced extensive blood loss or trauma before. I have both, and so long as I get some crutches and eat lots of sugary foods, I’ll be fine.”

“You had major surgery on your  _ leg _ and  _ side _ , Jane,” Rossi reminds her, flabbergasted. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for four days now.”

“See, that’s four days of bedrest.” Jane argues, repacking her go bag. “And the damage was mostly from the delay in treatment, not the actual explosion. I am a doctor, Dave. Plus - bonus - I’m a hypocrite with a hippocratic oath: great combo.”

“We’re not going to be able to say anything to stop you, are we?” Reid asks rhetorically, giving up on the argument and instead grabbing a pair of crutches propped against the far wall. “You’re not good to fly for a while, but neither is Hotch, so you’ll both be driving back instead.”

“How is he?” Jane asks suddenly, remembering that they were on a case last she heard. “And Joyner? And the terrorists?”

“Hotch has some damage in his right ear,” Rossi informs her. “And he’s sore. Joyner was touch and go for a minute there, but she’s in recovery. The terrorists were going to use the ambulance to blow up the hospital. Everything else was a diversion.”

“Hate it when they do that,” Jane brushes off. “Now grab me a doctor. I’m checking out AMA.”

* * *

 

They’re almost an hour into the drive back, Jane delegated to the backseat and not fully complaining as she was about three seconds from falling asleep, when Morgan clears his throat so loudly and awkwardly she’s half concerned he might have damaged something in there.

“Cough drop, LeFey?” She asks him sarcastically, eyes at half mast. 

“You were kind of in and out there, Doc,” Morgan starts, throwing a glance at her through the rearview mirror. “Before they took you off the strong stuff.”

Hotch turns his head, cocking his head at the younger man. Jane is just kind of confused. “I woke up before the 4 days were over?” She muses, not really bothered by not remembering that. “I mean, sure. If I was on the good stuff then it makes sense I don’t remember. Why?”

“Jane …” Morgan locks eyes with her through his reflection. “Does the name ‘Bree’ mean anything to you?”

“... No?” She almost asks, digging into her memory banks. “I don’t think so at least. Maybe an old patient or a case file?”

“Why?” Aaron asks sharply, eyes gaze laser focused on Morgan. “What did she say?”

“I said what now?” Jane asks, but is ignored by her teammates. She rolls her eyes, figuring that it’s just another random thing she almost-remembered when she was drugged out of her gills. Not in the mood for the conversation that would inevitably take place, she grabs earbuds from her bag and pops them in, plugging them into her MP3 and ignoring the profilers in favor slouching back onto the seat.

Probably wasn’t anything really important anyway.

* * *

 

Derek waits until he’s completely sure that Jane is distracted by her music before he glances over at Hotch again. Morgan’s nervous, because even though he read through the black book, this is by far the most significant thing that anyone has recorded about Jane - and he hasn’t even written it down or told anyone yet.

“Morgan,” Hotch deadpans, eyes locked on his.

“When Jane was loopy,” Morgan begins, checking Jane through the mirror again worriedly. “She didn’t call me Morgan, not at first. Or Derek. Or LeFey.”

“She called you ‘Bree’,” Hotch infers. “Why?”

“Because I was like him? But she said something afterwards, when I asked who Bree was,” He continues, averting his eyes in favor of the freeway ahead. “She said that Bree was her little brother.”

Derek swallowed, feeling Hotch siffen beside him. He glanced over and saw his boss twisted partially around to look back at Jane, who was leaning against the side of the car with her eyes closed, earbuds in.

“And,” He swallowed slightly, stumbling over his words. “Before the nurse kicked me out, she said:  _ ‘I’m not even a sister anymore. I’m not an anything anymore. _ ’”

Hotch turns back to face front again, expression stony. “We don’t tell her,” He orders, and Morgan hates the part of him that’s relieved at the command.

He didn’t want to be the one to tell his friend that part of her mourned the loss of a brother she didn’t even consciously know existed.

* * *

 

“Jane’s gone home for the day,” JJ announces as she walks into the round table room. “Anderson is driving her home.”

The team gathered around the table as if for a briefing, only this time it wasn’t for something as simple as a case. It was about their colleague and friend, and everyone knew different things in differing amounts.

“What  _ happened  _ to her, Hotch?” Reid asks, face pinched with worry. “Those scars … there’s only so many ways marks like those can develop.”

“Hotch,” Rossi speaks to the Unit Chief lowly, pulling the senior profiiler’s gaze from where it rested painfully on their young genius. “I think it may be time to pool all of our knowledge. Get everyone on the same page.”

Reluctantly, the dark haired man nods. And with the help of Rossi and Morgan they lay down everything they know. The silence their words are greeted by is a stunned sort of shock, and it takes a moment for the team to gather their words in response.

“So Jane …” Garcia starts, voice thick with unshed tears. “She doesn’t remember anything? Her name, her family? Even … even how she got those scars?”

Morgan shakes his head, and Garcia brings a hand up to muffle her choked back tears.

“We were worried that she was abused, or attacked, or … something,” Emily says, amazed. “But this is so much worse.”

“We  _ cannot _ go searching for her identity,” Hotch stresses, and it says something that no one even protests his order. “She’s suffered a lot, more than we realized, and if she starts remembering anything who knows what trauma she’ll uncover.”

“And a  _ brother _ ?” JJ asks faintly, hands shaking. “She has a brother named Bree that she can’t even remember unless she’s in a huge amount of pain?”

“Don’t treat her differently,” Rossi warns her, eyes sweeping the room. “That’s precisely what she’s afraid of. What she wants less than anything. We record data, we write it down. But we  _ do not _ do  _ any  _ major searching -” He locks eyes with Garcia, incredibly serious. “- until we know far more than we do now. We won’t be able to keep it from her if we do.”

“Garcia, do you understand?” Morgan asks, all traces of his usual banter gone. “This is bigger than we realized. Absolutely no searching through those databases of yours; you know that you wouldn’t be able to keep it from her if you’d find anything.”

“No, yes - of course, I mean,” Garcia stumbles, stopping to gather herself. “I won’t, Morgan, sirs. I promise.”

Tense silence follows. Luckily, it’s broken by Reid holding out a hand, palm up, to Hotch expectantly. “I’d like to add something to the book,” The genius states, wiggling his fingers slightly. “I’ve picked up a lot over the years.”

Hotch reaches into his bag and hands the notebook over. In his gut, a sense of accomplishment begins to unfurl, and part of him can’t help but be satisfied with the silver lining of this shit show of a case.

* * *

 

**BONUS** : 

“Aaron, you’re so dead.”

Hotch glances up to see Jane, propped up by two crutches liberally decorated by Garcia, glowering at him from the doorway of his office. The contrast between her scowl and the baby pink, glittering headband against her raven locks has him stomping down on his urge to laugh, and he stands to maneuver the doctor into a nearby chair. He pulls his office chair around to sit across from her, prudently offering his wrist to her as she fumes.

A minute or two later, Jane looks significantly less furious and all his vitals are checked and apparently given an all-clear.

“ _ Dave _ had to tell me you were near gunshots and  _ heavy machinery _ ?” Jane demands from him, still irritated. “What part of ‘hyperacusis’ and ‘tear in your eardrum’ do you not understand, you fucktard?”

“That’s not very PC,” Aaron can’t help but point out. “Not very becoming of a Federal employee.”

“I’ll show you PC,” Jane grumbles. “And that’s not the point. Not only did you potentially  _ permanently damage your hearing _ after I made an  _ exception _ for you, but  _ you  _ didn’t tell me. Dave did.”

Wincing, Aaron realized how badly he messed up. He opens his mouth - to apologize, to reason, to argue? Who really knows. But Jane cuts him off before he can get a word out. 

“You are benched, Hotchner,” She smiles at him sweetly. “Until such a time I can guarantee your complete recovery.”

Aaron swallows back his childish response, instead simply nodding and taking the lumps as they come.

“Good,” Jane nods, struggling to her feet. “Don’t do that again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll are more than welcome to suggest episodes you want me to do, but this all won't be consistant, I'll tell you that.
> 
> \- Milo Of The Key


	14. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I shouldn’t need to run, it’s just an interview,” Jane assures him softly.

Reid had been staring at her from his desk through her open office door for the past 20 minutes, and she’s about fed up with waiting for him to say something when he gets up to talk to her.

“Prentiss and I are going to Colorado,” Reid leads with, and Jane nods her acknowledgement. “We’re visiting a community almost completely cut off from the outside, and I don’t think that they have access to a lot of healthcare opportunities.”

Jane really looks at Reid for the first time, eyeing his nervous demeanor underlied by his firm determination.

“You want me to come along as a token of goodwill, to set the stiff cultists at ease,” Jane lays out. 

“Not only that,” Spinner confesses, relaxing slightly at her clear understanding. “But the people of the Ranch shouldn’t suffer illness or injury because they choose a different way of life.”

Jane smiles genuinely, and nods as she stands, snagging her cane as they went. “Let’s grab Emily and pitch it to Hotch.”

* * *

 

“I don’t like it,” Hotch tells her once Prentiss and Reid had left, presumably to pack.

“You got me the forms and the ID and the a-okay,” She reminds him. “Not sure what else you’re wanting from me here.”

“I want you out of the field until you’re healed,” Hotch frowns, eyes on where her hand is clenched around the body of her cane. “You can’t even run yet and you want to go into a Seperatist Ranch?”

“I shouldn’t need to run, it’s just an interview,” Jane assures him softly. “And I’m just there to provide medical aid to the people of the ranch. It’ll probably even be an advantage, seeing as I’ll be all the less threatening this way.”

Hotch sighs, but waves her out of his office.

* * *

 

“Tell us about the 911 call,” Spinner asks, reaching into the front of the car to snag the case file again. Jane keeps half an ear out as she double checks her satchel and duffel, making sure that none of her supplies were damaged on the flight over.

“I believe that the ‘he’ that they referred to is the church’s leader, Benjamin Cyrus,” Nancy Lunde, the Child Protective Services officer, told them; she drove with one hand on the wheel and the other curling up to her face. 

“Benjamin Cyrus,” Spinner echoes, flipping pages at nearly an eighth his usual speed. “No criminal record … no record at all, really. Uh - what else do you know about him?”

“It’s rumored that he’s practicing polygamy and forced marriages,” Lunde replies grimmly, eyes firmly on the rough terrain she was navigating.

“Any idea who the caller is?” Emily asks, mind no doubt running all the possibilities.

“Jessica Evanson is the one who the age fits but … well, we can’t be sure. So I negotiated interviews with all the children.” Lunde glances over, frustrated. “It wasn’t easy.”

“Well, considering their view on outsiders, it would be best if you didn’t identify us as FBI,” Emily impresses on Lunde, passing her gun and badge back to Reid and accepting IDs back in exchange. “Just use our real names and introduce us as child victim interview experts.”

“Except me,” Jane chips in, for the first time in the ride over bringing attention to herself. “I’m here as a favor to Spinner - Dr. Reid. I’m a friend of his who volunteered to bring additional medical aid. If they ask me to stay the hell away from them, or even insist that I need to leave, we bend to them. I’m not here in an official capacity.”

Lunde glances back in the rearview at her, but Jane keeps her face neutral; when Emily nods her confirmation, Lunde drops it.

As they pull into the Ranch and clamber out of the car Jane hangs back, leaning against the car with her satchel slung across her chest and her duffel at her feet. She puts all her weight on one leg and traces the grip of her cane with her fingers as her coworkers walk toward the building in front of them. As they exchange introductions and initial words, she keeps her gaze soft focused forward; propping herself up against the car. Open and nonthreatening.

“And who might she be?” Cyrus’ voice floats over, the cocky man taking a couple sauntering towards him.

“This is my friend, Dr. Jane Hart,” Spinner introduces her. “I asked her to come.”

“For what reason?” Cyrus asks sharply, eyes narrowing but his body language staying loose and open.

“With your permission,” Jane opens, not moving and shifting her gaze to focus on the Church leader. “I am here to provide medical supplies and aid to those who will accept it. I am completely at your disposal -” She emphasizes, playing off the man’s superiority. “- and I will only act as much as you are willing to allow me.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Cyrus prompts, coming level to her.

“In the duffel at my feet are medical supplies and a handful of books on field medicine and rudimentary first aid,” Jane explains, gesturing with her chin but keeping her gaze on Cyrus. “In my satchel is more specialized kit. The duffel is yours no matter what, but I can also contribute my medical training to treat anyone you wish, ranging from illnesses to injuries to less extreme health concerns. If I am unwelcome, I will either stay out of your way in a designated spot of your choosing or the car. If you are truly unhappy with my presence I will arrange for a ride off your property.”

Jane is sure to keep her voice level, not pushing but allowing Cyrus to have full control over her presence. She just hopes that between being a woman, short, a doctor, and clearly disadvantaged - what with the cane - she’ll quickly become a non-factor.

“Well then, Dr. Hart,” Cyrus finally speaks, reaching out a hand. “We would be delighted to have you working for us.”

She takes his hand, mindful of the phrasing, and stoops to pick up her duffel.

* * *

 

“This Dr. Hart,” Cyrus walks up to Reid as Emily organizes the interviews with Lunde. “You know her well?”

“We shared a mentor,” Reid answers truthfully, before cocking his head and revising his answer. “Or rather, my mentor was a close friend of hers. We got to know each other over the years and I asked her to join me here when I heard that I would be asked to come to your Ranch.”

“Why was that?” Cyrus asks with a faked causal air. “You must know, surely, that we do not always take well to those outside our Church.”

“I hoped that she might be able to help,” Reid treads carefully. “It seems unfair that one of your people may have to choose between their health and their ideals. I asked Jane along because I knew that she would treat anyone who came to her, regardless of who they are or what they believed. She takes her Oath very seriously.”

Cyrus’ eyes are on Jane where she’s talking to a middle aged woman about the splint she was carefully wrapping around her finger, explaining each step so that the woman would be able to replicate it herself with reasonable success.

“Yes,” Cyrus muses thoughtfully. “I can see that.”

* * *

 

Jane ignores the men with guns yelling at everyone to evacuate long enough to finish tying off the last stich in an increasingly alarmed twenty-something before she raises her hands and allows herself to get patted down and her bags searched.

“We just got a very strange phone call, from a news reporter,” Cyrus threatens them subtly. “Is there anything you want to tell me - about a raid, maybe?”

Jane feels her eyes widen involuntarily, and she starts swearing internally and doing the math of whether or not she has enough supplies to treat this many people. Not even close, that’s for sure. This isn’t going to end well, not with how organized the Ranch is. Especially not because Cyrus got a heads up.

“They don’t know,” Cyrus’ declaration jolts her out of her thoughts.

Once they’re in the tunnels the gunfire starts.

* * *

 

“Why was Jane even at the ranch?” JJ asks Morgan lowly in the back of the jet after the briefing, wary of Hotch or Rossi overhearing. “Isn’t she still using a cane?”

“Yeah,” Morgan grimaces, glancing at the senior profilers. “Reid asked her to tag along to provide medical aid to those who didn’t pursue it because of their beliefs. If she is still there, she’s providing first aid and treatment to those who got shot in the raid.”

“Is that a good thing?” JJ asks, not liking the look on Morgans face.

“They aren’t likely to kill her outright, at least not now,” Morgan allows. “But with the recent injuries the ranch just suffered and her particular skill set, she just became a  _ very  _ valuable asset - one that Cyrus isn’t likely to let go easily. That’s what’s got Rossi and Hotch so upset.”

“You mean that Jane could die because she’s too valuable to let go?” JJ asks, incredulous and fearful.

Morgan nods solemnly, and makes his way back to his seat.

* * *

 

“Where’s Lunde?” Emily asks Cyrus, worried for the CPS officer who’d run out. 

“It wasn’t us,” Cyrus tells her unfeelingly and with faked compassion. Emily can feel Jane flinch - she only barely reaches out to catch the shorter brunette around the waist before Reid beats her to it.

“Let me go, Spinner!” Jane tugs at his arm, eyes locked on the doorway that Cyrus and his men emerged from. “I’m a doctor, dammit!”

“And when this is over you need to be  _ alive _ to treat people,” Emily shuts her down, knowing she was being harsh but needing to cut through the doctor’s panic. “You need to  _ stay here _ .”

“Prentiss is right,” Spencer soothes her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders and pinning her arms to her sides. “We’re going to have a lot of wounded. We need you out of the crossfire.”

Jane slumped back into Ried, cursing furiously as she bows her head, turning into Reid’s tall form as Cyrus watched them all with a strange intensity that set Emily on edge.

The gunfire continues before a ceasefire is called, and Reid doesn’t even try to stop her as Jane bolts for the door, demanding to know where the casualties were.

* * *

 

“Dave,” Hotch comes up to him, jacket and tie gone in the Colorado heat. “They’ve left the choice of negotiators up to me.”

“I taught most of the hostage negotiation unit,” Rossi tells him, already going through his past students and compiling a preliminary list of his best. “You want a recommendation?”

“I’m making you the lead negotiator,” Hotch tells him, and Rossi gives a start.

“Me?” He asks incredulously.

“Why go to the student when I have the teacher?” Hotch asks in a reasonable voice, as if his suggestion didn’t flip everything on it’s head.

“Because the teacher is emotionally involved,” Dave reminds him. “So is the agent in command.”

“I know I am,” Hotch aquiesses. “This is a unique situation. We have three agents that can affect the outcome on the inside.”

“True, but I can’t be objective,” Rossi continues to protest. “I know them too well.”

“This outcome depends as much on our ability to predict the moves of Prentiss and Reid as Cyrus,” Hotch impresses on him. “That’s why you're the best man for the job.”

“But not Jane?” Dave asks, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

Hotch only shakes his head, grimacing. “Less so. Jane is a doctor first, not an agent.” Hotch reminds him. “With the number of injured she’ll only resort to directly and intentionally changing the situation if there is no other option, Reid and Prentiss are dead, or if she has a  _ really  _ good opportunity”

“Let’s hope that she does, then.”

* * *

 

“You killed my mom and daddy,” A little girl’s voice comes through the phone. “Are you going to kill me too?”

Morgan winces.

“No one is going to kill you, honey,” Rossi assures her, voice adjusted as he speaks to the child.

“This is Benjamin Cyrus,” The voice shifts. Cyrus’ drawl flows like molasses through the phone line. “Who I am talking to?”

“David Rossi, an FBI Agent,” Dave introduces himself, “We sent the state police away, There’s just us and the local sheriff …”

Morgan hears, processes, and analyses everything that Rossi and Cyrus were saying, but he’s detached right up until -

“Now, the three child service workers …?” Dave trails off.

“One of them is dead,” Cyrus tells them, uncaring, and Morgan feels his stomach drop. “It wasn’t us.”

“I need a name,” Rossi gathers himself, keeping his voice level. “To inform the family.”

“Her name was Nancy Lunde.”

Morgan kinda hates the part of him that’s glad it wasn’t Prentiss or Reid.

“And the other woman?” Rossi pushes. “The doctor?”

“Dr. Hart is alive as well, and we’re taking good care of her.” 

Morgan watches as Hotch’s shoulders loosen almost in sync with his own at the first part, only to immediately stiffen in the second. The reminder of the extra danger that Jane was in wasn’t welcome.

“Now please, Benjamin, send out your wounded,” Rossi continues on. “I promise you they’ll be well taken care of.”

“With enough supplies we can tend to our own,” Cyrus counters. “And good Dr. Hart cares not for sides in this war. You have hospitals and we do not - she will treat our wounded.”

Hotch and Rossi lock eyes, and Morgan knows that they’re calculating. Analyzing how long she has before she outlives her use.

“Ok,” Rossi aquiesses with fake ease. “I need a few hours to put it together. I’ll bring them up myself at first light.”

* * *

 

“He told them it was poison?” Jane asks incredulously, using the torn out lining of her jacket and her canteen to wipe the last bits of blood out from under her nails. “Damn.”

Reid nods, scooching closer to his friend. “It’s a good thing you were tending the wounded,” He tries to joke. “You would’ve run around like headless chicken trying to get everyone to purge what they just drank.”

“Yes, yes I would’ve,” Jane assures him grimmly, leaning against his shoulder tiredly. “But I might’ve also tried to tear -”

Emily shushed her - just in time too - as a very angry Cyrus came in with two of his cronies, looking furious.

“Grab her,” Cyrus orders his men, gesturing to Jane. She yelps as one of them grabbed her, pulling her against his chest with the body of his assault rifle digging into her back.

“Which one of you is it?” He demands, drawing a gun from his waistband when they only looked at him confused alarm, eyes flicking between him and where Jane was being held. “Which one of you is the FBI Agent?”

“Why do you think one of us is an FBI Agent?” Spinner asks, voice soft.

“God will forgive me for what I must do,” Cyrus prays before he levels his gun right between Reid’s eyebrows.

“ _ Spinner, _ ” Jane hisses, clutching the arm of her captor and straining against his larger frame. Cyrus’ eyes flick to her, but Reid speaking brings his attention right back.

“I - I don’t know what you’re talking about,” He tries again softly, puppy dog eyes on full blast. 

“One of you does,” Cyrus insists. “Who is it?”

“Me,” Emily confesses. “It’s me.”

Jane feels her stomach drop and her anxiety rocket up. She gapes unattractively before she forces her jaw to snap shut. Hopefully it added to her and Reid’s credibility.

Cyrus lowers his gun, clicking on the safety. And then he grabs Emily by the hair, dragging her out to the room kicking while Jane can’t do anything to stop them, caged in by some meathead diehard’s arms.

* * *

 

It sickens Jane, but she sat down across from Cyrus and reaches over, carefully examining his knuckles from where he pummeled her friend, her family. It’s a crude mimicry of how she examines her team after every case, nearly every day in the office, to assure herself that they’re safe. It sickens her. 

She keeps it off her face.

“Did you know she was FBI?” Cyrus asks, but she knows it’s not aimed at her so she dabs as his knuckles in silence. Just a tool, she supposes.

“Nancy told me the woman was a child abuse interview expert from Denver,” Reid tells him after a moment. “In the four years I worked with her, Nancy never lied to me before.”

“As far as you know,” Cyrus corrects sardonically. “Their law says that a 15-year old is a child. 50 years ago that same law said a 14 year old was an adult. Have children changed so much in 50 years?”

‘ _ Ugh, the preaching.’ _

“I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve investigated abuse charges against small religious groups,” Reid confides in Cyrus sympathetically as Jane began to organize the medical supplies. 

They continue to talk, and Jane would’ve paid attention if not for her finding one of the bugs as she was checking the amount of medical tape in one of the rolls. Controlling her reaction to the point that it was barely there, she carefully slipped it into the fabric of her glove, right in the inner curve of her wrist. She just prays that another one is still in the room; she has to trust that Aaron and Dave wouldn’t be stupid enough to have only one.

“And you?” Cyrus is addressing her, and she turns to face him. “What do you think of the laws of this country.”

“I don’t care about laws,” Jane shrugs, shifting to open up her body language. “I took an Oath that is technically legally binding - but I follow it to the letter not because I fear the government and its punishments but because if I fail to uphold the Oath I will be punished accordingly by a higher power. ‘ _ If I do not violate this Oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help _ ’,” She quotes.

Cyrus seems to think that’s enough, looking extremely satisfied with her answer. Jane pretends that she was lying when she told him that.

As Reid begins to profile and manipulate the cult leader, she slips out to check on her patients. As she passes through a quiet hallway, she lifts her wrist to her lips in a mimic of a yawn.

“I’m bugged,” She whispers.

And she carries on, trusting and Reid and hoping that she can find a way to get to Emily.

* * *

 

Jane makes a beeline straight for her when they release everyone into the chapel, and Emily can’t even pretend to be surprised. She accepts Jane’s familiar hands with grace and a small measure of comfort, knowing that even in this messed up hostage situation at least Jane will never change. Reid appears a moment later, hiding his pain at seeing her like this.

“He looks pissed,” She whispers to Reid, and Jane grunts in agreement. But she recognizes that look on Reid’s face. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she tries to play it off.

She takes Jane’s lack of scathing comments that she’s correct in her assessment, even as she winces when Jane prods a rib wrong.

“I’m so sorry,” He apologizes, clearly guilty.

“Look at who he’s releasing,” Emily distracts him, nodding at the room.

“It’s the one who failed the loyalty test,” Reid vocalizes it, eyes switching between the room and Jane’s careful ministrations.

“We’ll get word to the team,” Reid starts. “Wait for a sign from outside to indicate what time the raid will come.”

Jane stops abruptly and carefully begins to peel off her gloves, one finger at a time. Emily watches her movements carefully, noting the oddness of it. “Reid, will you hold my gloves for me?” Jane asks him suddenly, passing them to him in a scrunched up bundle. “I’ve got a bug bite on my wrist that’s driving me nuts.”

Spencer’s eyes widen, and Emily has to shut her mouth against asking  _ how in the hell did Jane get a wireless bug and stick it in her gloves? _

They all part ways.

* * *

 

“Jane’s a  _ genius _ ,” Rossi breathes, listening as his three teammates talk. “That bug she picked up is going to save us a lot of trouble.”

“Jane didn’t sound alarmed or sarcastic, so it’s likely that Emily isn’t severely injured.” Hotch extrapolates. “And we know now that they’re looking for a signal. We’ve run out of time, and we they need to have a raid, tonight.”

“But we don’t know what’s happening with Emily or Jane,” Morgan protests. “Shouldn’t she have given the bug to Prentiss? Or kept it herself?”

“Reid is closer to Cyrus and is more likely to hear his plans in detail. And she couldn’t risk giving anything to Emily, not with Cyrus’ men watching. The way this is being played makes it so that doubting Jane at all threatens Reid’s cover almost directly,” Hotch says grimmly. “Jane’ll have to take care of Emily. She’s got a lot of mobility, it sounds like. They see her as a neutral asset, neither good nor bad, but leaning towards good.”

“Will that be enough?” Morgan asks.

Neither man had a good answer for him.

* * *

 

Hotch stands at the whiteboard, looking at the pyramid Morgan drew with a marker in his hand. “The plan depends on Reid, Prentiss, and Jane separating the diehards from the followers.”

“And delaying Cyrus’ diehards from reacting to our assault,” Morgan adds.

“That’s not my main concern,” Hotch shakes his head and turns to face him. “Reid and Prentiss know what they need to do, and Jane knows how to follow the cues they give her.”

“So what is your concern?” Morgan asks. 

“Letting them know when we’re coming,” Hotch grimaces. “The whole thing hinges on them being ready for us at 3:00 AM.”

His eyes alight on the top of one of the fried chicken containers and he’s struck with an idea.

“Perfect.”

* * *

 

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Reid tears his eyes up from the last glimpse he had of  _ 3:00 AM _ written in red sharpie in Hotch’s handwriting. 

“You don’t have to be a part of this,” Cyrus continues. “You can go.”

“I think I’d prefer to stay,” Reid tells him, thinking of the bug he hid in the knot of his tie. “Somebody needs to tell your story.”

“I’m glad it’ll be you,” Cyrus smiles at him. “And your Dr. Hart?”

“Jane … I got her message loud and clear when this battle started,” Reid starts ( _ Message loud and clear _ , he repeats in his mind,  _ when the battle starts. _ ). “She cares about the injured and those in need - making sure everyone gets taken care of is who she is. She wouldn’t leave if someone needed her here.”

“I’m glad for that,” Cyrus repeats the sentiment. “Now that the false believers have been cleared from our midst, we make our final preparations.”

He opens a crate in front of him and begins to unpack the explosives within. 

“That’s a lot of dynamite,” Reid comments before going silent, mind racing.

* * *

 

“We called bomb techs,” Dave tells Hotch, walking up to his friend as he gazes out at the Ranch. “Jane is invaluable in there. Her giving Reid the bug means that we’re a lot more ready than we would’ve been.”

“Yet she’s also the most at risk,” Hotch sighs, shoulders heavy. “That’s it, when she gets back from this we’re putting her through field training and profiling courses. I can’t keep doing this.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Dave drawls dryly.

They stare for a moment longer.

“I know I can’t go in there,” Hotch tells Dave.

“I’m going,” Dave fires back.

“If something happens to Prentiss or Reid or Jane …” Hotch drags out, heavy. “I … I don’t know.”

“You’re not alone,” Rossi assures him, heart tight and nerves coiled.

* * *

 

“Emily,” Jane hisses at her, relieved at seeing her friend but too preoccupied to rejoice. “We’ve got at least three wounded men that can’t move on their own - get me some of the older and stronger followers to help me get them out.”

“Fine,” Her friend agrees distractedly. “Grab whoever you want - but be quick. This building is rigged to blow.”

Jane swears colorfully, but she snaggs some helpers and  _ goes _ -

* * *

 

“Emily are you alright?” Morgan’s voice calls out, and Emily feels like she can  _ breathe _ again.

“They’ve wired explosives,” Emily tells him, her forward momentum nearly causing her to crash into him.

“We know, Reid told us.” Morgan assures her, and she can feel tension leaking out of her like an open fire hydrant. “Bomb techs are dealing with it. Where’re Reid and Jane?”

And it’s back again.

“He’s in the chapel with Cyrus,” She tells him, feeling her hysteria rebuild. “And she was getting the wounded out.”

“We gotta get you out of here,” Rossi tells her, but she throws his comforting hand off.

“We gotta get  _ Reid _ ,” She insists, imagining her friend with a bullet in his brain - Cyrus standing over him, smirking.

“Prentiss,” Morgan cuts her off. “I will get Reid, Rossi will find Jane.  _ Go. _ ”

* * *

 

Jane watches the retreating backs of the women carrying the injured men out. They're making their way to the tunnels, but she needs to know all the followers are safe.

She can’t sit back and do nothing.

Making her way through the halls, she stays low and swiftly made her way through the halls. Room by room, door by door she checks every one. And except for dead bodies, she finds no one.

Except for Jessica Evanson running through the halls like a bat from hell.

Ignoring the twinge her thigh makes - belatedly realizing that at some point she lost her cane - she runs after her.

The moment she bursts through the chapel she can see Reid on the ground, Cyrus standing over him with his gun raised and -

In a moment of pure  _ feral rage _ , she  _ roars  _ and launches herself at him - a scalpel she didn’t even register that she’d grabbed severing his spinal cord between his lumbar and thoracic vertebrae.

She feels blood on her hands, feels sick.

And then Jessica’s screaming starts.

Morgan bursts in, gun aimed right at her, and she’s too busy shoving Cyrus to the ground and snarling in his face to care - ignoring his cries of pain in favor of growling like an animal at him, scalpel clattering out of her hand.

Then Jessica grabs the detonator, and Reid is yelling to  _ run  _ and they all sprinted for the door.

* * *

 

As Emily is hugging the life out of Spinner - only after first squeezing it out of Jane - she stumbles over to where Aaron is standing back looking at the (smaller than it could’ve been) blast. 

“You are getting training,” Aaron greets her, not even looking her way as he surveys the blast. “Official and unofficial. Reid and you can discuss profiling stats over chess, Morgan can teach you hand to hand, Dave negotiation. I’ll teach you protocol.” 

Jane just blinks, drifting closer to her friend until she’s practically tucked up under his arm. He obliges by wrapping one around her. 

“And you’re taking classes,” He continues, his hold firm and comforting. “Dave teaches some you can get in for free, and we’ve all got seminars. Quantico provides plenty of training for agents.”

“Are you sure you’re not overreacting?” Jane asks just to fill the space, not really objecting.

“This is not the first time, nor probably the last, that you have gone in as a doctor and ended up in situations you’re not trained for,” Hotch scolds her. “I’ll do whatever I like.”

“Okay,” She agrees, knowing she couldn’t object and not really wanting to anyway. “In the meantime - did someone grab my cane?”

* * *

 

Once she clears Emily to fly, they’re on the jet and getting the hell out of Colorado. She can hear Emily comforting Spencer, assuring him that she was willing to take the beating for them and that it wasn’t his fault.

She’d pay more attention if Morgan wasn’t looking at her like she was a traumatized child.

“Cyrus is dead, the  _ explosion _ killed him.” Morgan reminded her gently, his keen eyes taking in her flinch easily. “But you did a hell of a thing in there.”

“He was gonna hurt Reid,” Is all she can think to say, and does she sound younger? More childish?

“Jane …” Morgan trails off, eyes locked on her. “Is this your first time? Have you … can you remember ever hurting anyone before?”

She shakes her head. He pulls her into a hug.

The rest of the jet pretends that they don’t see her shaking.

* * *

 

**A/N:**

I received a lovely review from someone (thank you, UN) who asked if Jane was at all like Jane Rizzoli, who is a fictional homicide detective. I realize now that I haven’t given super precise descriptions of what Jane looks like, only outlines. 

And, because I know that some people really appreciate having someone to picture, I’ll provide one. Keep in mind, Jane exists to be someone in your head you can put to the name and the situation - feel free to disregard anything I say if you have a stronger idea already in place. I know I do that sometimes.

Jane is around 5’3” going into 5’4”; a strong wind won’t bowl her over, but she isn’t particularly sculpted nor sizable. She is, however, healthy and strong, as she has the training expected of a field agent and the additional she included to sustain her own health as a medical professional. She is an ethnically ambiguous woman with thick and curly black hair and an olive complexion. I pictured her with hazel eyes that change in the light to add to her ambiguity, and she nearly always has her hair up in a messy but serviceable bun.

Jane wears all black, all the time - down to the paint on her fingernails. She wears fingerless gloves, clothing that goes down to her wrist, up her neck, and all the way to her ankles - tucking into her black boots. The only spot of color on her - other than her eyes, arguably - is what Garcia gives her to wear. Penelope keeps insisting that Jane wears too much dark pigment, so she gifts her friend articles of clothing that would easily fit into the Tech Analyst’s own wardrobe - namely the colorful and absurd. Jane never receives gifts, so she wears every one and one a day - no matter how bizarre. This ranges from belts to scarfs to hats to headbands: nothing is too strange.

At this point in time the reader knows about Jane’s scars across her arms. They are many and varied, going across her arms in a macabre mimicry of artwork, and mostly carved. Jane’s tattoo, which goes across her back and over her shoulders and neck, is one singular piece but Jane implied that it had many different parts. It is at least partially green and red, and Jane doesn’t like to talk about it (I know, real shocker).

More details will come later, but I don’t plan on another cohesive analysis like this. I hope this is helpful.

\- Milo Of The Key


	15. 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to know who did this,” The Unit Chief told them in his ‘I am not amused’ voice. “This pranking has gotten out of hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first request!
> 
> Thank you so much, Tobias, and I hope it lives up to your hopes.
> 
> \- Milo Of The Key

“Jack’s reading at a fourth grade level,”

Jane looks up from her annoyingly large stack of papers at where Aaron had dropped into the chair across from her, his jacket shrugged off as he rolled up the cuff of his sleeve.

She unceremoniously shoved aside the pile, grateful for the distraction, and reach across her desk. As she found his pulse, she nodded for him to continue.

“I only found out from his teacher today,” Hotch continues, fatherly pride evident in his voice. “He’s really doing well in school.”

“Well I’d hope so,” the doctor commented dryly. “You read together every night. And he knows how much stock you put in education. He’s got no small amount of hero worship for you, Rin.”

“Probably not the words I would use,” He teases lightly. 

“But there’s something else,” She stated, retracting her hand, satisfied. “You would be singing more praises than reading level if that was it.”

Hotch sighed, sitting back as he pulled his jacket across his thighs, straightening out the wrinkles. “His teacher says that a boy in his class is bullying him at school.”

Jane glances up, confused. “What, you mean that Paulie-whatever kid?”

“Paul Kane?” Hotch provides, confused. “Why would you know about that?”

“Because the Little Bear talked to me about him - I thought he talked to _you_ about it?”

Hotch was taken aback. Why would …

“Did you tell him to invite Paul over to play?” He asked, not angry but rather curious. “Because that’s what he did.”

“Not really,” She shook her head. “I mean, he asked me what grownups did when they had to be around people who were mean to them. I went through the standard responses - you know, kill’em with kindness, treat others how you want to be treated, yada yada. Avoid ‘em if you have to. But he didn’t like those answers very much, said that they didn’t ‘feel right’.”

“So what did you end up telling him?” Hotch asked, more amused now that he had a feel for the situation. 

“I told him an Abraham Lincoln quote,” Jane admitted, a little embarrassed. “One of the few I know. ‘Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?’. Seemed appropriate, and like something you would say.”

“‘Do I not…’” The Unit Chief echoed, trailing off with a smile. “I will say that I feel a lot better after knowing where that idea came from. That was a good call.”

“I’m sorry, Rin, I thought he’d already talked to you and wanted a second opinion,” the petite woman apologized, pulling at the edge of her gloves. “I would’ve told your or …”

“It’s fine, honestly,” He reassured his friend and colleague. “I’m glad he talked to someone.”

Jane opened her mouth as if she was about to ask something, but then seemed to think better of it, turning back to her files.

“What?” He prodded her.

“I’m just-” She cut herself off. “Why did he talk to me and not you?”

Aaron smiled kindly, giving her a knowing look. “Because he looks up to you too.”

* * *

“I remember this bombing,” Jane confides in Rossi, looking over the file. “I mean, shooting. Case. Whatever.”

“Oh?” Rossi asks, looking up from his old notes. “I worked that case. It was before your time here, though.”

“Yeah, I was in med school …” Jane trailed off, looking distracted. “I remember that. I was just finishing working with a cadaver - a kid really. Some 20 year old too reckless with his alcohol and heavy machinery. I remember that it didn’t faze me that a kid - someone my age - was dead until I watched the news that night. It made it all real somehow.”

“It made it real for all of us,” Rossi reassured her grimmly. “Not just you.”

* * *

“Oh my god, I think you were the Mean Girl,” Jane caught Spinner saying as she entered the crime scene, his tone amazed and only half joking.

“Who was mean?” She cut in, walking back into the singed room with the ME report in hand. “ _J_ _J_ was mean?”

“She was the Mean Girl in high school!” Her fellow doctor practically tattled, sounding like a child who had his favorite toy taken away.

“No, I was not!” JJ insisted, shooting a half-pleading look Jane’s way. “I was actually one of the nice girls, even to guys like him!”

“Guys like him?” Jane echoed dryly.

“Guys like me?” Reid repeated incredulously. “I’ll have you know that my social standing increased after I started winning at basketball.”  
Jane left them to bicker, gazing over the report and pulling out a pen to annotate.

“What about you?”

Jane looked up, startled by Reid’s question. “What about me?”

“Who were you in high school - I mean, I know you don’t remember it but you had to have thought about it at some time.”

Jane’s brow furrowed as she slipped the clip of her pen to the top of the file, closing it slowly. 

“I dunno,” She finally answered, words slow and thoughtful. “I think … the one no one bothered. Too much effort to bully, too odd for big friend groups … the one who avoided the drama and kept to her books.”

She blinks after that, surprised.

“That’s good,” JJ encouraged her, treating it as normal. “It would just be icing on the cake if you were bullied too.”

“Pretty sucky icing,” Spinner muttered, and Jane laughed and shoved her thoughts back, forcing herself to go back to work.

* * *

“Did LeFay just seriously do what I thought he just did?” 

Hotch turned away from Ms. Slade to face his friend at her low murmur.

“And what did he do?” He asked dryly, loud enough for Ms. Slade to hear. The harried woman probably could use a bit of a distraction right now. Something to think about other than the bombings and the interrogation of her son.

“He gave Spinner’s full name and title to the reporters instead of his own - and his phone number,” Jane reported dryly. “Reid’s gonna have his head.”

“Why would he do that?” Ms. Slade asked, tearing her eyes away from where Rossi was talking to her son.

“Because he’s a child,” Jane responded automatically, but then winced at the jab to her side courtesy of Hotch’s elbow “Because he and Reid are best friends and we all have cases that hit a little too close to home. A prank’ll keep Reid from lingering on anything for too long.”

The older woman nodded, clearly not understanding but willing to take her word for it.

“But if they get rowdy,” Jane warned her friend, voice dropping so low that Hotch had to lean down to hear her. “I will absolutely kick their asses.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

* * *

Jane was in the police station sat next to Hotch, staring at a wall of photos, when her phone rang. She pulled it out of her satchel, putting it on speaker as she slid it open.

“Dr. Hart,” She greeted, expecting Penny on the other end with some groundbreaking discovery. She was disappointed.

“ _Jane, what do you know about Pain Asymbolia?”_ Reid’s voice sounded instead.

“I know that if you’re proposing that someone has it you’re ignoring the fact that there are only 20 reported cases of it,” Jane scoffed, sparing a glare at the device. “Just move your ass. I’m not having this conversation over the phone.”

“Good,” Spinner’s voice rang out from both behind her and through her mobile. “And it’s the only likely scenario.”

“ _Only likely -_ ” She cut herself off. “Only 20 cases _ever recorded_ and an unsub we haven’t even _identified_ is our _only likely -_ ”

“Jane,” Hotch cuts her off, more amused than anything else.”

“Shut up and let me argue,” She dismisses him, eyes locked on her fellow doctor. “Just because someone isn’t _likely_ to be able to tolerate -”

“I know that but you need to consider the signs -”

“Despite the tolerance level of multiple other -”

“The punched and shattered glass -”

“Adrenaline and drugs are far -”

“Not shown in the profile -”

“There is almost no -”

“Even if-”

“Not-”

“Bu-”

“Okay, _stop_ ,” Rossi cuts them off loudly, shooting glances at the staring police officers. “Jane, grow up. Reid, shut up.”

They both have the decency to look guilty at that.

“How likely is this … condition to be the case?” Hotch asks, clearly not following the argument at all but trying to settle it all the same.

Jane sighed, rubbing her brow. “Spinner is right that the -”

She’s cut off by the sound of Reid’s phone going off.

“Spinner is right about one thing,” She starts over. “If he punched through glass and was still able to beat the tar out of someone barehanded _after_ he pummeled a woman to death, his pain receptors have something seriously wrong with them.”

“And if no one at the meeting Emily called was showing signs of pain then it wasn’t just a spur of the moment thing.” Reid added. “The Unsub’s hand would’ve suffered extreme damage and no one showed that.”

“That is assuming that the Unsub was at the meeting,” Jane pointed out. “Pain asymbolia is still a stretch.”

They all fall silent as Spinner’s phone rang again.

“Sorry, I -”

“But if we go with the working concept that this guy can’t feel pain for whatever reason,” Jane cuts off his apology, shooting Morgan an annoyed look. “Then we can assume that his sense of empathy is skewed due to his lack of pain comprehension.”

“A significant contributor to the way we experience empathy is the way we feel pain,” Morgan continued her thought.

“And the Unsub didn’t develop his sense of empathy because it was cut off,” Hotch finished. “Does every person with asymbolia have this?”

“You know, all 20 of them,” Jane muttered, glaring at Reid’s incessant cellphone. “No, they feel it fine.”

“Which makes me thing that the rest of the profile is just fine,” Spinner piped in, trying in vain to ignore his phone again. “Loner, invisible, outcast, boiling _rage - SON OF A BITCH!”_

Reid practically ripped his phone out of his pocket, scrambling for his ‘accept call’ button. 

“ _HI_ , this is Doctor Spencer Ried - I actually _can_ come to the phone right now with a very _special message_ that your mother is a -”

“ _R_ _eid_ ,” Hotch cuts him off before he could say anything that he would regret.

Jane took one look at Morgan’s smug, ‘innocent’ face and sat down heavily in a chair, letting her forehead drop to the conference room table.

“You break it, you buy it,” Rossi chuckles at her, placing a hand on the crown of her head to tilt her up long enough to slide Reid’s messenger bag under it. “We do need you, even if this case isn’t a lot of blood and gore.”

“ _I_ _’ll show you blood and gore_ ,” Jane growled as the absolute _infants_ started posturing.

* * *

The case was over, the Unsub was dead, and Reid had retaliated against Morgan and started a full blown prank war between the two that brought the entire BAU into the crossfire.

Jane was as close to committing homicide as she’d ever been. She’d actually been in positions where Unsubs - super, _majorly disturbed_ , horrible unsubs - were on the other end of her gun or knife and she had been less inclined to fudge some paperwork to make it seem like a good shoot.

“The bathroom is full of salt,” The irritated doctor growled at JJ, itching for some sympathy and ideally also an ally for when she was eventually dragged in. “The toilets have Mortan salt containers instead of TP. The floor is covered in packets. There are _salt licks_ instead of _soap bars_.”

“At least they were creative?” The media liaison cum profiler tried to console her.

“They are two _supposed ‘_ men’ fucking up the _woman’s bathroom_ in a _federal building_ ,” Jane hissed.

“In fairness, they did it to the men’s too,” Rossi chipped in, gaining quite a bit of amusement from her irritation. “The woman’s was most likely just for completion's sake.”

“Not helping, _David_ ,” She snapped at him. “They pull one more thing like this and I’m going to _end them._ ”

* * *

They pulled one more thing like that. 

In fact, they both hit each other simultaneously: Morgan got Garcia to program everyone’s computers to play Nyan cat at full blast whenever they typed the word ‘Unsub’ and Reid and Emily conspired to replace _everyone’s_ black, professional pens with neon colors that were prone to bleeding through.

Including Hotch’s. _Including Jane’s_.

Clearly neither JJ or Rossi had thought to warn them.

Oh ho, her revenge was going to be sweet.

* * *

Using a favor to look after Jack at the last minute some time in the future, Jane got Hotch to pull out a case that didn’t need her consultation but _did_ need Garcia’s - a possible kidnapping cold case without a crime scene other than a questionable digital footprint and some old files.

Once they were all on the plane she got to work.

First she called in a favor or two, arranging for some of the janitorial staff she knew to bring up boxes - full and empty - and for the other inhabitants of the building to look the other way with the promise that she would end the war once and for all.

They didn’t even know what was coming for them.

* * *

Hotch was wary coming back from the case. It was a quick one, easily resolved once they got on the scene and could process all the information as it came in. No, Aaron was worried because Jane had called in one of the favors she horded like gold to make sure they spent the resources to get on site and out of the office.

“What the _hell?”_ They heard the yell, startled by the actual almost-anger in Garcia’s voice. Stomach dropping, the whole team turn back down the hall where their technical analyst had peeled off to drop her bags. 

Half expecting an unsub to be attacking the normally cheerful woman, instead they crammed into the tiny office to see -

“Oh,” Was all JJ could get out.

Garcia’s computers were gone. All of them, from the screens to the servers to her mouse pad. In their place was an original Macintosh computer, old and filthy, complete with mouse and old chunky keyboard. It was even on, with the FBI database pulled up on screen.

“My things,” Garcia gasped, looking around wildly. “My troll dolls, my unicorns - my _computers -!_ ”

“Oh don’t tell me,” Morgan groans once he gets a good look. He turns out into the hall, sprinting for his office.”

His, too, was completely reworked: his desk was gone and so was his furniture, leaving only his shelves intact. The shelves, however, were full of kids art supplies and books, even a tiny backpack and what looked like a pair of snow pants. In the place of his desk was a single elementary school style (and sized) classroom desk and a single #2 pencil. To top it all off the ground was covered in toys and legos in hazardous places, crunching with each one of Morgan’s steps as he spun slowly in the middle of the room - bewildered and irritated.

“Reid …” Morgan growled. “Where’s my stuff?”

“Reid!” Garcia gasped, whipping around in a flash to face the genius. “ _T_ _ell_ me you didn’t!”

“I didn’t do anything!” He protested, eyes flickering around the room and taking everything in in an instant. “But …”

At a significantly more sedate pace - though still at a steady clip - the team headed to the bullpen, which they had rushed past in their haste. They stopped on the landing, and Dave couldn’t hold in his laughter as he guffawed, clutching his side.

Reid and Emily’s desks had been replaced with tables sized to fit kindergarteners. Tiny plastic chairs - and in Reid’s case, carpet squares - surrounded each one; each table top was covered liberally in glitter, glue, markers, crayons, and all kinds of supplies a child would use. 

But the most hilarious thing, blocking the entrance to Rossi and Hotch’s offices, was a large, glittery banner written in bright red letters saying: ‘IF YOU’RE GOING TO ACT LIKE CHILDREN, THEN YOU CAN WORK LIKE CHILDREN.’

* * *

After Hotch checked that his (and as it so happened, Rossi and JJ’s) offices and things were still intact he called a meeting in the bullpen, frowning at the team. 

“I want to know who did this,” The Unit Chief told them in his ‘I am not amused’ voice. “This pranking has gotten out of hand.”

“That’s what I said,” Jane walked in, wearing a headband with a large, glittering apple askew on the top of her head. “This war was getting out of hand.”

“ _Jane?_ ” Morgan asked incredulously, eyes wide with shock. “When -”

“While we were gone,” JJ guessed, wary of getting any blame for being spared.

“I’m all for fun and games, but this is going too far,” Garcia shook her head, clearly shocked by the turnabout. “You took my _computers._ ”

“Oh?” Jane asked, amused by their reactions. “So I should’ve let you guys continue to wage war in the middle of the _Federal Bureau of Investigation_ until it got the point where one of you would’ve been reprimanded for it? Paperwork has already been behind, how long until it affects how soon we can save someone’s life?”

“It wouldn’t have gotten that far,” Morgan dismissed. 

“Maybe, maybe not,” She shrugged with put upon relaxation. “But we can’t risk that. _And_ I am sick of getting caught in the crossfire and so’s the rest of the building. I had to redo a days worth of work and a stack of handwritten files, pee in _counter terrorism_ \- which is _full_ of assholes - because of _salt_ , clean silly string out of my satchel, remove rubber duckies from my office, and _so much more_. You were children, and since you made your bed, now you get to lay in it.”

“You heard what she said,” Hotch chipped in finally, eyes flickering with amusement. “I’m sure that Jane can conveniently locate your files, and we still need to finish up the paperwork for this case.”

The sound of indignant protests was music to Jane’s ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: As of 9.21.19 I've edited all previous chapters. Some spelling errors and continuity have been addressed.


	16. 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think we’re dealing with more than 11 missing,” Jane drops grimmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much Anon for your lovely comment and request. 
> 
> Hope this is suitably angsty for you!
> 
> \- Milo Of the Key

“His name’s William Hightower,” JJ begins the briefing, turning away from the Canadian surveillance video of the ex-soldier driving into the Canadian border post. “He claims that over the past month, he’s picked 10 people off the streets of Detroit, killed them, then dumped their bodies across the border in Canada.”

“Has he given up the dumpsite?” Emily inquires.

“He says he’ll only talk to the FBI,” JJ shakes her head, grimacing.

“Do we have confirmation these people are even missing?” Reid has to ask.

“Two were reported missing by family months ago, but they all appear to be transients. We're having a hard time finding any information on them.”

“Garcia?” Hotch prompts.

“Like a bloodhound, sir,” The blonde analyst gathered up her pens and files, heading for the door while the profilers plus JJ finish up the briefing.

The Technical Analyst almost immediately collides with Jane; the doctor was leaning against the wall of the hallway, clutching her side with a grimace on her face.

“Oh, sugar plum!” Penelope gasps out, hurrying to put her files down onto the floor to free her hands. “What -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jane cuts her off, grimacing a smile at the blonde. “Just some cramps.”

Garcia didn’t believe it for a second.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” She told Jane, uncharacteristically serious. “You don’t. If you don’t want to tell me something, you don’t have to.”

Jane’s face twitches, the way she does when she’s trying not to smile and grimace at the same time, and straightens up carefully.

“Just take care of yourself, okay?” Garcia asks, waiting until she gets a nod to continue. “Okay then, want to help me look into a Vet while you eat the candy in my office?”

“Animal vet or military vet?” Jane asked her as they turned to walk - slowly, carefully - to her office after Garcia had a chance to scoop up her pile again.

“Military,” Garcia replied, a little confused.

“You never know with this job,” Jane laughed, and Penelope lets herself relax a bit at the genuine sound.

* * *

“It’s called the Cass Corridor,” Jane told them, glancing only briefly at the map. “That’s where the transients and the … less than law abiding citizens frequent.”

“Yes, that’s where there’s the highest concentration …” Reid trails off, looking at Jane intently. “How did you know that?”

“Not a memory that slipped out,” Jane dismisses his clear train of thought, causing a jet-wide exhale. “But I spent months as a transient before I joined the Bureau. I was in Detroit for weeks.”

“Wait, you were homeless?” Derek asked, eyebrows furrowing. “I thought that after - that you went to Boston for work.”

“I didn’t go straight there,” Jane frowned, the base of her palm digging into her side. “Cass Cor is full of high-risk targets.”

“So for this guy,” Emily stears them back on track. “Maybe it’s more about opportunity than victimology.”

“Morgan, Prentiss, when we land I want you to head straight to Detroit; see if you hear anything in the whisper stream,” Hotch decides. “I want to make sure we have a crime before we get too deeply into this.”

He turns to Jane: “Do you remember the streets well enough to navigate them still?”

“It’s only been, oh, half a decade,” Jane jokes. “I’ll be better than nothing. I can hit up some old contacts in the area.”

“Good. Morgan, take Jane with you.”

* * *

“Something’s wrong.”

Morgan glances in the rearview at where Jane is staring intently out the window, eyes scanning. 

“What?” He asks her, shooting a glance at Emily. “What is it?”

“It wasn’t like this last time …” Jane mutters, just barely within the range of his hearing. She didn’t seem to even realize that she had spoken.

 _"Jane,”_ Emily gets her attention, turning in her seat to face the shorter woman head on. When she gets her friends eyes, she continues. “What’s wrong?”

“You guys don’t _feel_ it?” Jane pushes. “ _Look_ at them.”

“They’ve set up camps,” Derek realizes, eyes on the people on the street. “Safety in numbers. They’re _scared_.”

“I don’t see a single person who’s isolated themselves from the others,” Emily catches on quickly.

“When I was here last they were scattered, staggered,” Jane explains. “This type of living doesn’t constitute a lot of _trust_. If they’ve changed this much, then something _made_ them. Morgan, let me out here.”

“If this guy did kill 10 people,” Morgan begins to pull over, complying automatically. “I don’t see how he could’ve done it without witnesses - what are you doing.”

“You guys conduct your search,” Jane told them, pulling a wad of fabric out of her bag as she began to tug at her hair tie. “I have some old contacts to hit. Call you later.”

“Jane, wait-” Emily tries to stop her.

“I’ve got my gun,” She calls out to them as she slams the door, slipping into the crowd before they could follow her or even fully protest.

* * *

“Morgan, Prentiss - where’s Jane?”

The two turn to face Hotch and Reid, and they both start at the Unit Chief's reminder.

“She said she was hitting up some contacts,” Derek told them. “You mean she hasn’t come _back_ yet?”

“You let her go out on her own without backup?” Hotch demanded, scowling at their transgression. “We’ve got a serial killer targeting transients - people _on their own_.”

Reid whips out his phone as Hotch continues to ream them out, dialing Jane’s number rapidly.

“Jane,” The doctor answers, music blaring in the background.

“Are you at a _club_?” Reid asks incredulously, relief at her answering replaced with confusion as he put the phone on speaker. The rest of the team within earshot cut out the argument at his sudden question. 

“A guy in the scene owes me one - or, well, more than one,” Jane calls loudly over the sound of bodies and music. “I got some info.”

“What do you have?” Hotch pushed aside his confusion at the locale. “Anything relevant?”

“I think we’re dealing with more than 11 missing,” Jane drops grimmly, the sound of movement coming through Spencer’s phone as the volume of the music drops. “And it’s not just in the last couple months. Andre says he’s had regulars in the area drop off the map, ranging from dancers to dealers to working girls to old Vets. People that had constant habits and work leaving with no explanation. All in the past four or so years”

“How many people are we talking here?” Derek asked, trading wide eyed looks with the others. “How many _more?”_

“Thirty six I could get descriptions of,” Jane admits, voice tired. “If this is the same unsub …”

“Get back here so we can ID them,” Hotch orders. “We need to catch this guy.”

“On my way.”

“Oh, and Jane?” Hotch catches her before she hangs up. “If you ever walk off on your own when you could potentially become a target -”

“Read you loud and clear, Rin.”

And she hangs up on them.

* * *

 

There was a gorgeous woman standing out of place in the middle of the precinct.

“Ma’m, are you-” 

JJ cuts herself off abruptly, taking a step back as she got a good look at the woman’s face.

“ _Jane?_ ”

JJ’s brain stuttered to a stop.

The doctor had transformed. Hair braided elegantly and up, low rise _white_ jeans, a studded red belt -

She - _Jane_ \- was wearing a black corset-like top; it was sleeveless, strapless, and mostly backless with black cords criss crossing across her back. When JJ had seen the figure from behind, the only thing that the Media Liaison had really processed about her was the tattoo. 

Underneath the leather and the silver eyelets was a black and green masterpiece: vines and leaves twisting and curling across her skin. Scar tissue followed the curves of the ink, culminating to a hatched shading of a single flower in the middle of her back, between her shoulder blades - a lily, or something similar. 

And in that last split second before Jane had turned around to face her, a glimpse of red drew JJ’s gaze and she only barely caught the letters ‘ _IV_ _’_ across the back of her neck in a blood red font before she was greeted by a familiar face.

With _makeup on it_.

It took a moment for the blonde agent to get her feet under her.

“What, you expected me to go to the clubs in work clothes?” Jane drawls dryly, pushing past her and snagging her satchel from off a nearby desk. “Where’s Hotch?”

“Umm,” JJ stumbled after her, trying not to stare. “We just finished up with the giving the preliminary profile to the police -”

“Oi, Aaron!” Jane called across the station. When the shock of her appearance registered, the team all collectively sputtered to a standstill. “I’ve got names and descriptions and dates. Who do I give them to?”

With a huff as no answer came promptly, she crossed her arms over her chest - drawing attention to the black wrappings running from her mid bicep down to bind around her hands, effectively hiding her less pleasant scars.

“ … To Reid and JJ,” The Unit Chief gets out finally, tearing his eyes away from Jane’s red lipstick and dark maroon eyeshadow. “Then we’re hitting the streets.”

“Will do.”

And then she turns to walk into the conference room, pulling out a notebook and shooting a look over her shoulder at her friends expectantly.

* * *

Derek lifted his phone to snap a photo of Jane through the window; he continued to stand patiently until the Doc turned to say something to Reid, getting another of her back. 

Then he lifted his phone to dial.

“Hey Baby Girl,” He greeted, grinning. “Thought that you might want a little early birthday present, just for you.”

“Oh?” Her voice sounded, cheery and flirtatious. “And what would that be, sugar lips?”

“Take a look at the camera roll on my phone and find out.”

He waited a moment as the sound of keys tapped away, and when he heard her sharp inhale he knew that she had seen them.

“No. _Way_.” She gasped, “ _Tell me_ these are real.”

“I’m not the computer whiz here,” Derek laughed. “And would I ever lie to you?”

“Oh, these are so _great_!” Garcia gushed. “And she’s just _wearing_ this?”

“She went out to talk to some old contacts,” Derek shrugged, turning away from the window finally. “Apparently she knows the club scene here.”

“Knows the - that’s _it_ !” Penelope decided - very loudly. “There are no more excuses! She and I are going out to party - there’s no way we _can’t_ if she can dress like _that!_  Derek, she’s wearing _color!_ ”

“I gotcha, Baby Girl.” Derek smiled, though it began to slip from his face. “But - just add that to the folder, okay?”

“The one on Jane?” Garcia calmed down, and Morgan could practically feel her nodding. “Of course, Derek. It’s already there.”

* * *

When Hotch realized that Jane was gone, he was both resigned and furious.

When she returned, he wasted no time to grab her - once again covered - shoulder and drag her into an empty office.

“You wandered off again,” Aaron felt himself practically growl at Jane. “I told you to stay _put_.”

“I did _not_ wander off,” Jane shot back. “I went to _change._ ”

“You needed to stop at a pharmacy to _change_?” Hotch raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t lie, you’re no good at it.”

“No, I’m fine at lying,” She huffed at him. “You’re just a fucking _profiler_ and I don’t even know why I _bother_ -”

“ _J_ _ane_ ,” Hotch stopped her. “Tell me what’s going on with you. It’s not just the city - you weren’t even at the briefing. You never miss a meeting unless it’s for a very good reason.”

Jane collected herself, turning to face Hotch as she considered him, her eyes locked on the knot of his tie. There was still the stain of her lipstick on her lips and her eyelashes were still thick with her mascara, Hotch noted as he waited.

“Because it has to do with my health,” Jane finally decides to speak. “I have some … additional health needs, and I needed a pitstop. I stuck to crowds.”

“What’s going on?” Hotch asked, brooking no room for argument.

“I … have some old injuries,” Jane admitted, clearly figuring that there was no way she was getting out of spilling. “I used my vacation time a few weeks ago to have surgery done to fix some old damage - I’m still healing.”

Aaron felt his stomach drop out from under him. 

“You’ve been walking around all _week_ \- you’ve been working and not taking it easy,” Hotch hissed, voice dropping dangerously in pitch and volume. “You-”

“Hippocratic hypocrite,” Jane reminded him, hand coming up to scratch at the back of her neck. “And I _have_ been taking it easy.”

“Not easy enough. You’re benched.”

“What -”

“For this case, _at least_. We find any crime scenes, you can do your work there,” Hotch finalized, face set in stone. “But you are to stay in the precinct tonight and every other night until this case is resolved.”

Jane went silent, and Hotch could _see_ when she decided to give up.

“I’ll see what I can dig up about the missing medical supplies, then.”

* * *

Morgan stared at the table practically dripping red onto the already bloodstained floor, eyes trailing over the sadistic scene of stolen medical instruments and farm tools. Prentiss came up behind him, and he forced himself to breathe through the nausea building in the back of his throat.

He gave the barn one last sweep, clearing it once again, before he pulled out his phone and hitting speed dial.

“Jane?” Derek got out once the phone was picked up. “I think you should get over here, _now_.”

* * *

Crossing the border was greatly sped along by the pretty pretty acronym on her badge. 

Sped up a little _too_ fast. It left a bad taste in her mouth. A bad feeling in her gut.

Jane pulled up just as false dawn began to break, only the very beginnings of Canadian police and crime techs on the scene.

“We managed to get you to be lead on this,” Hotch greets her without pause as she climbed out of the car. “I don’t think the techs have seen I scene like this before. But you have manpower, so you are _not_ to be directly hands on. You coordinate and parse through what _they_ get you, deal?”

Still in trouble, then.

“Yes,” She resigns. “Let me get my bag and we’ll see what I can do.”

“And Jane,” Hotch stops her, and she turns - preparing for another reprimand.

“It’s more than forty seven victims.”

 _God did she hate being right_.

She turned to open the car door again, taking her dismissal as Hotch’s eyes locked on the distant pig pen over her. Just as she takes her first step -

“How long would it take?”

The doctor paused, turning to face her friend yet again with the tiniest sliver of dark humor at the slapstick-esq routine. “I assume you don’t mean me getting my bag - which is literally in the back of the car I just got out of.”

“No, what-” Hotch cuts himself off, shoving aside his confusion. “Reid thinks the bodies were eaten by the pigs. How long would it take for a body to be eaten?”

“Based off what I got from LeFay about the amount of blood in the barn, I’d say they were dismembered, or at least severely cut up with what I’d bet was at least one amputation,” Jane layed out. “If you’re worried about Kelly, there’d still be evidence of her in the pen and fresher blood in the barn if she was dead and disposed of here.”

Hotch nodded, and Jane finally got to grab her bag and get started.

* * *

“How many so far?” 

Jane turned to look up from her crouch as Morgan came up behind her, his jaw twitching with the stress and anger he was pushing back for the sake of the Canadian PD. 

In response she held up two fingers, and only after he shifted his wrist for her did she answer.

“Fifty six,” She answered after a moment, feeling his disgust and rage fluttering beneath her fingers. “But I’d say we’ve at least another twenty pairs, easily.”

“How …” He trails off, and Jane gripped his forearm to pull herself up, grunting as her stitches pulled.

“Are you injured?” He shifts gears, staring in disbelief as she clutched her side. “Jane -”

“I’m _fine_ ,” She shuts him down.

“Can …” Derek trails off again, eyebrows creasing. “I’d like to know. And … can I have a distraction?”

She paused. Studied him. She saw the request as more than just his nosiness and worry. She sighs, _‘The things I do for my friends._ ’

“I had an old injury that didn’t heal right,” She tells him bluntly. “Stomach wound. Had surgery to reduce the internal scarring and damage recently and it’s not 100% yet.”

“Oh ho,” Derek almost-laughs. “No wonder Hotch is pissed and watching you like a hawk.”

“Hotch the Hawk,” Jane muses, flashing a quick grin at her suited and scowling friend. “Well, at least it fits.”

But then a crime scene tech declares another pair, a set of heels too small to be a full grown adults.

All traces of humor disappear with that.

* * *

Rossi looks up as Garcia came out from further in the house, face devastated. His stomach dropped even as he stood to intercept her.

“Garcia?”

“You should get Jane,” The Tech Analyst says faintly, unable to tear her eyes off of Mason Turner. “You should -”

“Garcia, _what did you find?”_ He stops her, gentle but firm.

“They were doing experiments,” She gathers herself. “You should get Jane.”

Rossi pulled out his phone and sent a quick text. “Experiments?” Rossi repeated as he pocketed his phone.

“Unsuccessful ones,” Mason Turner - the _unsub_ \- contributed without an ounce of regret. Only correcting a fact.

“He tried to _fix_ himself,” Garcia continued, full of pain and a readable amount of disgust. It was jarring coming from the usually cheerful woman.

“Would it be better if it was all for nothing?”

“They were human beings,” Rossi told him, still blindsided after all of his years of how a person could be so depraved. So sick.

“They were transients and drug users and prostitutes,” Mason dismissed them. “They were useless to society. I gave them the chance to be part of a cure. To be of _use_.”

“But that's -” Garcia protested, silent tears falling.

“That's science,” Mason cut her off, voice still flat.

“Who are you to say who is of use?”

All eyes turned to where Jane stood, latex gloves clutched in her hand. They hadn’t even heard her come in.

“And who are you?” Mason scoffed at her.

“Six years ago I was living on the very streets you compelled your mentally challenged brother to abduct over 80 people from,” Jane bulldozed over him. “I could’ve been one of your victims. Now, I am the only medical professional and doctor to ever be attached to a BAU team permanently.”

She took a step forward, skirting around Dave in a smooth, almost predatory motion to stand at the foot of Turner’s bed. “I was once on those streets, and I have _saved_ the lives of more people than you have _killed_ \- tortured for experiments doomed to fail. Who’s really _worth more to society?”_

* * *

“The Turner’s attempts at - from what I can tell - spinal regeneration was not only sick and inhumane, but also complete pseudo science,” Jane told the team as she massaged her temples. “The _very least_ that sick motherfucker could do was actually _do science_ , but no. All the smart bad guys had to be _hackers_.”

“Skipping right over that …” Rossi looked at her oddly, wondering just how little sleep the normally mum woman was running on to be so unfiltered. “Hotch, you were a prosecutor. Could you convict this guy? A quadripelegic who clearly never touched any of the victims?”

“I don’t know,” The Unit Chief grimaces, “We need to concentrate on Kelly. We can’t worry about the other stuff right now.”

The stern agent left - Jane trailing after him muttering about headaches and murderers - as they went to get updates from the on-scene techs. 

“He might get away with this,” Rossi said, but then he suddenly shook his head as if to force his thoughts back. “Reid. How much do you know about the time Jane spent between leaving ‘Them’ and arriving in Boston?”

“Umm, not much,” Reid blinked at the abrupt change in subject. “Why?”

“Because of something Jane said in there,” Rossi admitted. “She said she was in Detroit six years ago.”

“A year after the Turners started killing,” The genius grimaced. “She could’ve been one of their victims.”

“I don’t want to imagine it,” Rossi shook his head. “If she was just another of those pairs of shoes …”

“You’re right,” Reid clenched his fists, gaze on the empty pig pen and the lineup of filthy footwear. “It’s not something to think about.”

* * *

“Jane!”

She looked up at Hotch’s call, stripping off her gloves and grabbing her gun and satchel at his beckoning hand.

“You found her?” She asks rhetorically, snagging a new pair of gloves as she passed a table.

“Kelly managed to get ahold of Lucas’ phone and place a call,” He tells her as they join Rossi and clamber into the SUV, whatever the Canadian equivalent of SWAT following close behind them.

“Did she sound injured?”

“Scared,” Hotch clipped. “I don’t know any more than that.”

* * *

“Kelly Shane?” Hotch calls into the hatch in the ground once Reid pulls it open, gun aimed alongside the rest of the team’s.

“Down here!” Jane hears called back, and the doctor waits just long enough for Hotch to announce himself and descened before she’s vaulting down, wincing as the rough landing jars both her knees and side.

“Kelly?” Jane calls out to the young woman’s huddled form. “Kelly, I’m a doctor. Are you injured?”

“Yes, but Lucas - put your hands up okay?” The teen begs her captor. “You need to put your hands up.”

“Kelly, I need you to come with me so I can treat you.”

She ends up having to pull a reluctant Kelly away, deciding to seat her in the corner of the cellar so she could check her head.

“They’re not going to hurt him are they?” Kelly pleads, wincing as Jane prodded her forehead and checked her eyes. “He’s - it’s because of his brother. You know that right?”

“I know that,” Jane assures her, eyes flicking to the coiled form of the Canadian authorities. “But we can’t do anything if he attacks us first.”

“He won’t, he isn’t  -” 

“Jane!”

At Hotch’s voice she whipped around in time to see Lucas getting agitated, and she felt her eyes widen.

“Kelly, I need you to climb up and out.”

“What -?”

“ _Now_ , Kelly.”

The girl gets as far as the top rung before the shots ring out behind them.

* * *

“93.”

Jane looks up at Hotch, the stack of piles on her lap heavy as she takes in the image of her Unit Leader looking out over the team. She was in his office, neither of them wanting to be alone right now.

“93 what?” 

“89 dead victims,” Hotch says in his steady, too steady tone. “Mason and Lucas Turner. 91 dead.”

Aaron turned from the window, out of place in his own office. She meets his eyes.

“Kelly Shane will never be able to live the same again, and William Hightower gave up his leg for his country only to give up everything for his sister. 93 lives destroyed.”

“Aaron …”

“Sarnia, Ontario - forced to see people they spent their lives with as the monsters they were,” He pressed forward, the tiniest notes of hysteria drowned out by the resignation in his voice. “The team, who will just keep looking into this abyss until it breaks them.”

“You can’t keep score like this,” She warns him. “It will destroy you.”

“Like it destroyed them?” 

The silence is stale.

“Aaron, I don’t think you should be alone tonight,” Jane finally tells him. “We should go out for drinks, or you can kip on my couch after a movie night - some rom com that neither of us would ever touch sober. Acuka and beer and tortilla chips.”

“You and your acuka,” He tries to joke. It falls flat.

“No, I -” He takes a deep breath. “I just need to be in my own house, just -”

“If you change your mind -” She offers, not ending her statement, changing directions. “Call me at flipping midnight if you want. With the amount of work I have to do, I’ll be up for a while. You’ll regret not skiving off with me and my acuka, I can promise you that.”

Aaron’s lips twitch in a weak attempt at a grin.

“Don’t count on it.”


	17. 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dr. Reid,” Dr. Norman cut him off before he could excuse himself. “About your coworker -”

“Remind me again why I’m not at the dump site or the morgue?”

The idyllic suburbia of Los Angeles rushed by them, blurring through the windows of the SUV as they sped through. Jane was sat in the back, fingers intertwined in the strap of the seatbelt across her chest. Hotch barely spared her a glance at her question, keeping his eyes on the road.

“These parents are going to be panicking,” He explained to Jane, hands gripping the steering wheel ahead of him. “We need them to feel that any opportunity we have is potentially the one that will save Micheal’s life.”  
“So you present an experienced medic who will be there with them to get the most updated information, and focusing solely on their son’s wellbeing,” The doctor finishes, nodding. “Have you considered that my presence as a reminder of any harm to Micheal may be detrimental?”

“I have, yes,” The Unit Chief sighed. “But I’m hoping at least one of the Bridges’ will view you as a … a beacon of hope.”

“A beacon of hope,” She repeated, shaking her head. “That’s a new one.”

The SUV falls quiet for a long moment, pondering.

“Since getting pregnant …” JJ spoke up from the front seat for the first time, trailing off as she gazed out the car windshield. 

“It’s worse,” Hotch finished for her, glancing at her before focusing back on the road. “The same happened to me after Jack.”

“It’s _supposed_ to get harder,” Jane chimed in, and Aaron’s eyes flicked up to the rearview to catch her gazing out the window. “That means that you are seeing the world as the danger it is to your kids. If you don’t, then it means your instincts aren’t kicking in - and that’s worse.”

“Doesn’t exactly make me feel better,” JJ pointed out, lips twitching.

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” Jane agreed dryly. “In some ways, I’m lucky. The doctor in me sees everyone as being threatened; none of this is any worse when it’s a child.”

“Do you really believe that?” Aaron asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“It doesn’t mean that it’s any easier, Rin,” She corrected firmly. “Just means that I see everyone as breakable: kids just as much as adults, adults just as much as kids.”

“That sounds exhausting,” JJ told her.

The rest of the short drive passed in silence.

* * *

 Jane picks up her phone on the first ring, stepping into an empty room in the Bridges house to gain some privacy.

“Dr. Hart.”

“ _Hey, Jane,_ ” Spencer greeted her through the line. “ _Can you think of any reason a digestive tract could be completely deprived of food and the body not show any signs of malnutrition?_ ”

“Huh?” Jane’s head twitched at the oddity of the question. “If there’s no sign of malnutrition, then that means that he was still getting nutrients even if it wasn’t through food.”

“ _No IV line."_

“No IV line …” Jane worried her lip. “Nutritional fluids could be thin enough not to show in the stomach and intestines. Are there any signs of dehydration -?”

“ _Dehydration_?” A man’s voice came from behind her, angry and shocked.

Jane whipped around to see Craig Bridges, Micheal’s father, standing in the doorway. He almost loomed with his fists clenched, form coiled and tensed against the idea of his son going without water.

“Gotta go,” Jane dismissed herself, quickly snapping her phone closed. “Mr. Bridges -”

“Was he keeping water from that boy?” He demanded. “Was he -”

“ _Mr. Bridges_ ,” Jane placated. “I’m sorry that you had to hear that. I should’ve gone outside -”

“No, I need to know,” He insisted. “I need to know what happened to that boy - what’s _happening_ to my _son_.”

Jane took a deep breath, pocketing her phone.

“Ethan was found with an empty stomach,” Jane told him delicately, mindful of her wording. “What we do know is that he was not deprived of nutrients, which means that the Unsub is taking deliberate care for Micheal’s health.”

“Until he kills them.”

“Until the seven days have come to an end,” Jane corrects firmly. “Mr. Bridges -”

“Craig.”

“ _Craig_.” She took a breath. “I think that you should be with your wife - with _Amy_ \- right now.”

“Yeah, I -” He cut himself off, nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay.”

* * *

 Prentiss huffed heavily as they arrive at the dump site.

“Not exactly a well-preserved scene,” Rossi voiced her thoughts lightly.

“It’s the crime scene investigators,” She lamented. “They all want to play cop instead of just being scientists - and they end up _trampling_ on _everything_.”

“Well, they can’t all be Jane,” Rossi reasoned.

“Oh, if only,” Emily almost-laughed. “Crime rates would drop if the world was ruled by an army of Janes.”

“That would be quite something,” Rossi agreed. “No crime at all even. No little boys killed for no reason.”

Emily shook her head, frowning at the dusty desert.

“If only.”

* * *

 There’s a couch, low and soft and just barely into the stage of being broken in. It’s long, with plump navy cushions and a square pillow at each end, one with red flowers and the other with stripes.

She’s sat at the edge, too short legs curled up under her as she leans on the armrest, her elbow on the flowered pillow. She’s comfortable - absurdly so - and she can smell the richness of the hot chocolate on the coffee table. The fresh, sharp smell of pine needles and cut wood coming from the tall tree with it’s bows laden with ornaments of glass and wood. Strings of lights shine with color and flash with the beat of her heart, low and steady in the calm afternoon.

There’s music playing too: too far away and too low to make out words even as the jazz of holiday tunes carries through the air. She can hear the bustling of someone in the kitchen, beyond her view and behind the tree. The sound of whistling in tune with the familiar record. A man. Someone she can feel a fond, aching void in place of where her memories should be.

Her hands are busy. A jacket, a man’s jacket, is splayed across her knees as she reattaches a button. It’s work, but work done with a type of contented fondness that she (- the she that is so alien to this foreign scene -) can’t remember ever having felt before. She’s humming along with the quiet music and the contented whistling, a quip about how old and threadbare the coat is at the tip of her tongue ready to be carried over the tree and the music to the man’s ears -

And then she wakes, gasping into the empty room.

She nearly _sobs_.

Dreams _haunt_ her.

She can see them. Taste them, hear them, smell them, _feel them_. But never remember. Never really remember.

The room is hot - stifling hot - and the hotel’s AC is cranked on high but still pathetic at its job. The machine thrums with a choked sound that makes her want to bury her head under the suffocating comforter just to try and drown it out.

She’s up anyhow, and she’s not going anywhere. She doesn’t even need to glance at her watch to know how absurdly early it is; too early even for her.

Fumbling blindly in the dark, one hand goes for the light on the table and the other for the bag by her bed. She finds both at the same time, and as she flicks the florescents on she sits back with journal in hand. She begins to write.

No sense wasting a memory, after all.

It takes forever and no time, writing everything down. Already the details were fading. Was it snowy? Or could she even see outside? Was the tree tall or was the room just small? What color was the jacket, the thread?

Finally she sighs, closing the book with a soft sound that still echoes in the dead room. 

‘ _Witching hour_ ,’ She thinks. 

She studies the book in her hand. The cover might’ve been the same navy the couch, but the memory - dream? - is fading now. She’ll never know.

She’s used to never knowing.

It’s a funny coincidence, she supposes. Or maybe it’s not a correlation but a causation. Reid falls asleep on the plane and wakes talking about dreams and basements and babies … and the next day - night, really - she wakes up from another half remembered, distorted memory of her own.

At least she hopes it’s a memory. Her mind would be cruel to give her such a dream with no hope of her ever having that kind of contented happiness before. Jane didn’t even know she was even capable of feeling like that.

She peels open the cover, lifting the pages of the book and runs her thumb along the edges of the thick pages, the light sound of the pages being flipped rapidly somehow soothing to her fried nerves. 

Soothing even if not all the ink covering said pages - all the dreams she’d had that seemed to real not to have some truth in them - were happy dreams. Happy memories.

At least tonight’s wasn’t a nightmare.

* * *

 “Jane …” 

She glanced up at her friend as she reaches to adjust his tie. All dressed up and ready to attend the funeral of a child; at least Jane gets to stay back at the house with JJ.

“Yeah, Spinner?” She asked him tiredly, feeling the strain of the previous night’s lack of sleep crashing down on her.

“How do you deal with not remembering -?” He begins to ask, then flinches.

“Don’t worry, I know that Hotch told you all,” She assured him dryly. “He didn’t keep _that_ from me.”

“But how do you do it?” He pushes, eyebrows pinches. “You’re an amnesiac, and you half remember things all the time. Many old forgotten memories come in dreams and ... they can’t all be good. How do you know what is real and what isn’t? The truth in the dream.”

“You mean the truth in the nightmare?” 

He nods, more of a twitch of his chin then anything else, but he nods all the same.

“Spinner, I know you’ve been having nightmares.” She started, focusing on straightening the American flag pin on his tie. “And I know that you’ve been remembering a lot of things about when you were younger, but you need to remember that time warps memories. Especially in dreams.”

“You’re saying that what I’m remembering isn’t real,” He states, voice flat. “That I’m going crazy.”

“No,” She shook her head, glancing up at him again. “No, I’m saying that you have a perfect memory, Spencer, but something’s got to give. You may remember some scene perfectly, but the context may be skewed by the way you now see the world. After doing this job, none of us see our memories the same way that we used to.”

And Jane turns to walk out of the room, brushing past LeFey on the landing just outside the door.

* * *

 “You didn’t have to come with me, you know.”

Jane turned to him, and Spencer felt her eyes on his right ear. 

“Yes, I did,” She finally said. “The Bridges were getting to me.”

Spencer only shook his head and pulled the door open in front of him, allowing his fellow doctor to step into the sanitarium lobby before him. 

They walked in silence before they were intercepted by the tall figure of Dr. Norman.

“Dr. Reid,” He greeted Spencer, shaking his hand. “And …”

“Dr. Jane Hart,” Spencer introduced. “A fellow agent and friend of mine.”

Jane nodded faintly in greeting, not looking at Dr. Norman but rather scanning the room with a clinical eye.

Dr. Norman took the dismissal in stride, used to odd behavior from his patients.

“Your mother didn’t tell me you were in town.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” Spencer corrected, sparing Jane a glance as she studied the chair his mother was sat in, recognizing her from the Fisher King case.

He took the time to quickly explain the situation, and after handing Norman the file, he and Jane crossed the room.

“Spencer!” His mother greeted him with a smile, giving him and Jane a careful once over. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for work,” He told her, glad to be recognized. “Do you remember Jane?”

“Oh, is that her name?” His mother marveled, giving the shorter woman a smile. “I just _knew_ I had seen her somewhere before, but I thought it was off the TV.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard that one before,” Jane gave a small, genuine smile; her gaze fixed on the neck of his mother’s cardigan. “Though I have heard worse pickup lines.”

“Oh, I’m too old to flirt,” His mother dismissed with a laugh, cutting over Reid’s sputtering. “But I could’ve sworn I saw you on 60 Minutes.”

“No ma'am,” Jane shook her head. “Never even on a press release.”

She shifted then, reaching into her satchel for her water bottle. “I’m going to go fill this up.”

* * *

 When Jane returned, Dr. Norman had beat her there and was turning up an empty search to Spencer.

“You know, if this person has an Axis-1 condition, her release wouldn’t be as important as whether or not she keeps to her medications.”  
“All right,” Spencer sighed, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Jane echoed, giving Norman a slight, wooden smile. “We appreciate your effort.”

Spencer was just puzzling over the odd looks that Dr. Norman was giving Jane when his mother sat forward suddenly.

“I went off my medication when I was pregnant with you,” She recalled, hands clutching her sweater closed. “I spent every day in terror, but I made it. And it was beautiful. I had you.”

“Oh god,” Jane gasped, eyes wide as she whipped out her phone. “ _Breast milk_.”

Spencer held in a gasp of his own as Jane walked away at a clip with her fingers tapping at her phone.

“Dr. Reid,” Dr. Norman cut him off before he could excuse himself. “About your coworker -”

“Friend,” He felt the urge to correct him; coworker didn’t sound right when it came to Jane.

“About your friend,” Norman rephrased, and Spencer caught his mother’s smile out of the corner of his eye. “Is she … I hesitate to ask, but has she seen a medical professional?”

“About what?” He blinked. “I know that she has some odd … qualities. We all have noticed them, but she’s demonstrated no signs of psychosis.”

“No, of course not,” The older doctor shook his head. “I’m not suggesting that. It just seems to me that ... perhaps Dr. Hart may be an undiagnosed individual. Aspergers perhaps. Her discomfort with emoting and looking people in the eye …”

“Are also negative symptoms of schizophrenia,” His mother cut in, suddenly furious and spitting nails. “And I will not be having that nice young woman institutionalized. I’m bad enough.”

“Diana -” Dr Norman tried to placate her, but Spencer cut him off.

“Dr Norman, I appreciate your input,” Spencer told him, resting a hand on his mother’s arm to calm her, glancing at where Jane was still on the phone. “But any type of diagnosis would hurt more than help, that I am confident of.”

“I understand, you know her best.” Norman nodded. “Regardless, I hope you find this boy.”

“So do I.”

* * *

 Jane was checking over Micheal when she saw the Unsub - _Claire_ \- be led past the window.

She had to take a moment to stare.

Then she swallowed back the thickness in her throat and made herself turn back to the confused and scared little boy in front of her.

* * *

 “ _Yes, O plebeian?_ ”

Jane had to smile at her friend’s answer, “Why Penny, I’m wounded.”

“ _Janey_!” The Anylist enthused. “ _I thought the team was hitting the Boardwalk!_ ”

“I figured that since Spinner was taking off into the night to be with his mom I’d take some time of my own,” Jane smiled faintly. “But then I remembered you were all holed up in the Fortress of Solitude yourself.”

“ _Oh sweet cheeks, I am far more of a Bat Cave girl than a Superpeople fan_ ,” She laughed through the line. “ _What do you have in mind, sugar?”_

Jane laughed, switching the call to a bluetooth connection, earpiece hidden by her hair.

“I’m dressed to hit the town,” She grinned. “How about you feed me pickup lines and bad jokes and we can see how many people I can scare off.”

“ _Oh ho,_ ” Penelope guffawed. “ _This is gonna be_ FUN. _”_

* * *

 “You,” Emily states, flopping exhaustedly into Jane’s chair, wrist stuck out straight ahead in good - and slightly mocking - humor. “Are avoiding Todd.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed bluntly, blindly grabbing her friend’s wrist as she continued to type one handedly. “Yes I am.”

“ _Why_?”

“She’s a temp,” Jane deadpanned. “She’s not my concern.”

“She’s going to be a _part of this team_ ,” Emily pressed, pulling her wrist away before Jane could finish, gaining her full attention.

“ _She’s not JJ_ ,” Jane hissed, tearing away her gaze and making a halfhearted swipe at Emily’s arm.

“So _that’s_ what this is about.”

The two women looked up to where Hotch was stepping into the office, closing the door behind him.

“Don’t you _knock?”_

“JJ is going to be away from your care,” Hotch bowled over her. “Into someone else's. And sure, Elle and Gideon left - so did others before them - but they didn’t go because of physical wellness and health. JJ, however -.”

“ _Hotchner_ ,” Jane growls dangerously.

“You have until Reid comes back to read Agent Todd’s file - _properly read_ ,” Hotch gave her an ultimatum, eyebrow cocked. “Then you can introduce yourself and _allow her_ to be a part of this team, Jane.”

“Fine,” She agreed, lowly. Repeating herself more loudly. “ _Fine_ , but JJ better keep me in the loop.”

“You know she will,” Hotch dismissed with a quirked eyebrow. “Now take Emily’s pulse so she can go indoctrinate the newbie.”

* * *

 “Reid, this hypnosis thing …”

“We don’t tell Jane. We can’t.”

Rossi looked over his friend carefully. 

“Okay, Reid. Okay.”

* * *

 “What’s with the wincing?” Garcia asks JJ, eyes narrowing at her fellow blonde’s discomfort. “You okay?”

“Fine,” JJ insists, not really sounding convinced herself.

“Are you sure?” Agent Todd asks the pregnant Liaison, eyebrows coming together. “I noticed this earlier.”

“Earlier?” Garcia echoes, suddenly a lot of things clicking into place. She sits forward. “How often?”

“Ummm,” JJ thinks reluctantly, rubbing her convex stomach. “In the last hour … I’d say every 10 minutes.”

“JJ!” Garcia exclaims, pulling out her earphone. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Because I am not due for another 3 weeks,” JJ insisted, clearly in denial.

“Newsflash,” Garcia practically crowed. “You’re in labor! Todd, go get Jane!”

“Who?” Todd asked, but she’s quickly drowned out by JJ’s protests.

“No, no, no,” The soon-to-be new mother denies. “Because Reid needs us right now.”

Garcia snorts at her friends stubbornness, standing to help her up. “ _You_ need you right now. Come on, get up!”

* * *

 Hotch looks up as Agent Todd hurries into the bullpen from the direction of Garcia’s office, looking harried. “Agent Hotchner?” She calls out to him, rushing her words, “Garcia sent me to get a ‘Jane?’”

Immediately on alert, Hotch set down the coffee he was preparing and scanned the bullpen for the doctor. “Why do you need her?” Hotch asked the temp, waving Jane over once he caught her eye. “Is something wrong?”

“No - I mean,” Todd stumbled, eyes flickering to the approaching doctor. “It’s just that -”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Garcia’s entrance cuts her off, and the room turns to see the woman striding in with JJ on her arm. “I am not a doctor - I leave that to Janey - but I believe young JJ’s going into labor!”

Immediately Jane swoops in to JJ’s other side, asking her questions quietly as Emily hurried over to her friend’s, grinning. 

“I’ll get the car,” Hotch calls to them, smiling at his colleague’s good fortune.

As he rushed ahead to the elevator, he felt Todd following him. He glanced over at her.

“Something on your mind other than the baby, Agent Todd?” He asked her. 

“Yes, I mean …” She stumbles over her words.  “I was never introduced to … Jane. She’s a doctor?”

Hotch quickly brushed her concern off, lying a little through his teeth. “That would be most likely due to a lack of overlap more than meaning to keep you out of the loop. She’s our imbedded doctor, CSI, and ME. You’ve never heard her mentioned?”

“ _That’s_ Dr. Hart?” Todd asks, disbelieving and shooting a glance over her shoulder. “JJ mentioned that she was off on a consult when I was meeting the team. I thought …”

“Yes?” Hotch prompts her, amused as the elevator opens. 

“I thought she would be older,” Todd admitted. “And that she would be a bit more of a … robot.”

Hotch held back a laugh at that. “You’re not the first to be confused, Agent Todd. Don’t worry.”

“But … ” Todd continues, still hesitant. “Was she wearing lime green suspenders?”

* * *

 She’s hyperventilating, and she knows it. Desperately she tries to slow her breathing down, but she’s _suffocating_.

Her hands clench the cool porcelain of the sink’s edge, shoulders hunching in defensively. Shakily she turns on the taps, cool water filling the basin as she dips in her hands and splashes her face. The woman looking back at her in the mirror was cornered, feral, with sweat and sink water dripping down her cheeks, eyeliner smeared and skin pasty.

 _Suffocating_.

She practically rips her hair tie out, taking chunks of hair with it as sweaty strands tumble down over her shoulder. But the bit of tension it alleviates isn’t enough, and she pulls off her jacket, dropping it carelessly on the nasty bathroom floor. Then goes her shirt as she lets it crumple to the ground, leaving in her just in her bra. The cool, artificial air of the hospital is soothing on her skin and Jane splashes more water on her face and neck, drawing together some sense of composure.

And for three blissful seconds, she can _breathe_.

And then the door swings open, and her eyes fly up to see Emily behind her - reflected in the dingy mirror - staring at her back. Jane flies around, hands bracing against the edge of the sink as she tries to hide her body - tries in vain, considering the mirror inches behind her.

Emily stand there in shock, and they stand there with their eyes locked on each other as the door noisily creaks shut. The dull _thud_ of it’s final closing jolts Emily out of her stunned stupor as she turns rapidly to lock the door behind her.

“Jane …” Emily starts to say, and that’s the last straw.

She can’t hold back her tears anymore, and her composure crumbles. She’s tired and frazzled and _it hurts_ and she clutches her stomach as she _sobs -_

Distantly, she realizes that she’s on the floor, wrapped around herself in a weak attempt at comfort, but she doesn’t care.

 

The image of JJ holding a newborn _burns_ -

 

She doesn’t know how long they sit there. But when the tears finally - _finally_ \- peter out, she’s numb and tired and has her back to the cool ceramic of the wall. The chill from the floor seeps up through her trousers, numbing her legs. 

She hadn’t cried for years. It leaves her feeling empty.

“I had a baby once, you know,” Jane feels herself saying distantly, and part of her wonders when she started revealing so much about herself. “I don’t remember it, of course. I might’ve even had more than one.”

She doesn’t look at Emily.

“I know because of this,” She points to her torso, straightening up to indicate the ugly scar running from one side of her stomach to the other - a ragged line drawn between the protrusions of her pelvis. “It’s where they tore my baby out of me.”

Jane swallows thickly, and she allows her eyelids to slip shut against the fluorescents of the confined space. 

“I’m so sorry,” Emily says softly, and Jane can only clench her eyes tighter.

“It’s horrible to be jealous, isn’t it?” Jane asks her, fists curling around the fabric around her ankles. “That she has what I was supposed to, but never did.”

“You had a child that you never got to watch grow up,” Emily says slowly. “You don’t even remember having them, carrying them. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That woman, Claire.” Jane gulped, prying her eyes open to lock onto her friends dark, pitying eyes. “She kidnapped those boys because she couldn’t handle not having her baby.”

“You’re not like her, Jane -” Emily starts, but she’s shaking her head robotically.

“No, I’m not.” Jane stated, voice dead as she shut her eyes again. “Because I don’t feel anything.”

She pushes up, scooping up her shirt and pulling it on mechanically. As she stoops to grab her jacket too, she turns to face her friend again - feeling like ice. “I’m not like her,” Jane repeats, with a smile chiseled from stone. “Because I don’t feel anything at all. What does that make me?”

She cleared her throat, grabbing paper towels to wipe her face. “Emily,” she addresses her friend. “This does _not_ go into that book, am I clear?”

The profiler nods numbly.

Jane shrugs on her jacket, unlocks the door, and strolls out to congratulate the father of the child.

And maybe she can pretend that it’s happy tears she shed.


	18. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You, Dr. Hart, fit a certain physical type that we have a need for. I would like you to go undercover.”

“Did you do something to Strauss?” Hotch spoke from Jane’s doorway, face a mask.

Given her track record with the woman, Jane actually had to take a moment to think. She put her pen down.

“No…?” Jane shook her head, taking Hotch’s proffered wrist as he crossed to her. “Why? She mad at me?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Aaron denied, confusion leaking through his typical facade. “But she started asking about you - where you were, if you were busy, things like that.”

Jane blinked. Twice. “That’s …” 

Disturbing. Terrifying. Intimidating. 

“Concerning,” She settled on. “Did _you_ piss her off?”

“No more than usual,” Her friend cocked an eyebrow. “She’s in her office. She asks for you to meet her once you have the opportunity to.”

“So ‘ _right now right now right now_ ’,” Jane translated, gathering her satchel and recovering her leather jacket from the back of her chair. “Gotcha. See you in the afterlife.”

Hotch was left alone not-frowning in her office.

* * *

Strauss was clearly waiting for her, even if the Section Chief was writing in a file to disguise that fact. It made her nervous. She wasn’t going to like this, was she?

“Good evening, Dr. Hart,” Strauss greeted her formally from behind her desk. “I’m glad that you could meet with me.”

“Evening, Chief Strauss,” Jane replied in kind, lowering herself into the chair across from the older woman. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You,” Strauss removes her glasses from where they were perched low on her nose, gesturing at her with them. “Are spending far too much time with Agent Hotchner. That sounded as if it came straight from his mouth.”

“I _am_ on his team,” Jane acquiesced with a slight smile. “But in all seriousness, why have you called me here? Is my work less than satisfactory?”

“No,” Strauss shook her head. “In fact, you are performing most admirably. So much so I have other units pounding at my door demanding that someone just as qualified as you join their teams.”

“That’s very flattering,” Jane smirked, a curl of satisfaction at her work in her gut. “And what have you told them?”

“That I’m not dealing with the headache of finding another you.” A smile touched Strauss’ lips. “You’re a miracle unto yourself.”

“But that’s not why I’m here,” Jane pressed.

“I see that you are still just as no nonsense,” Strauss opened a drawer in her desk. “This is less about you as a doctor and more about you as a woman.”

“Ma’m?” She sits back, startled.

“You, Dr. Hart, fit a certain physical type that we have a need for. I would like you to go undercover.”

Jane had to take a moment to blink through that confusing statement.

“I’m sorry _what?_  Strauss, I’m not qualified or trained for that,” Jane stumbles, dropping formalities in her shock. “Why on earth would you choose me?”

“Are you familiar with the Colemyer Legacy case?” Strauss asked instead of answering her.

“Yes, vaguely.” Jane nodded. “It’s come up in conversation - profilers, and all that.”

“Then you are aware that the body of Marisole Ryden has never been found.”

“Yes -” Jane cut off as it hit her. “You want me to impersonate _Marisole Ryden_?”

“Indeed,” Strauss affirmed, pulling a single photo out of a pile of folders on her desk, passing it across the desk. “See a resemblance?”

The photo was of a young teen, maybe 15 or 16, with …

‘ _N_ _o. Impossible. Impossible_.’

Jane forced herself to focus on the details of the photo, piece by piece. It was cropped, apparently from a group photo, with the girl’s smile blown wide and artfully lined eyes shining with joy. Her hair was down and wild, a curly mess spilling over her shoulders. Her grin was lopsided, her near perfect teeth just this side of crooked.

Jane nodded when she remembered that Strauss had asked a question, not trusting her voice. She felt a headache begin to build behind her brow.

“I thought you might,” Strauss bobbed her head as she passed a stack of files to the doctor. “This is all the information we have on Marisole Ryden. Memorise and assimilate it all - we need you to pass more than casual inspection.”

“Why?” Is all Jane can muster, flipping through the pages. “Why…?”

“The allotted time for claiming heirship to the Colemyer Estate is nearly up and there’s mayhem,” Strauss sighed, clearly frustrated with the situation. “The Estate’s lawyers are in a tiz about the possibility of Ryden still being alive to inherit, considering the fallout of the company if no heir is found. A number of women have stepped forward, and considering the high profile of these circumstances, the Director has tasked the Bureau to eliminate the fakes.”

“So you need an inside man to suss out the impersonators from the inside,” Jane guesses. “Why me? I can’t be the only Agent in the FBI who ... fits the characteristics.”

“Because you are tied to the BAU,” Strauss answers dryly. “As a result you’ve received nearly enough training and field experience to qualify you as a full fledged profiler. You fit the type, and you have enough intelligence and training to be passable.”

“Despite my not having any undercover experience,” Jane interjected.

“Despite that, yes.” Strauss allowed. “You leave to go through the entire elimination and testing process in two weeks. We will, for the interim, hide your past identity so that even the examiners won’t be able to tell you’re a mole. The rest you will have to manage on your own.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Find Marisole Ryden,” Strauss ordered, leaving no room for argument. “And if everyone else is a fake, be declared the real one in her place.”

* * *

“Why are you going on leave?” Garcia grilled her in the small bullpen kitchenette, the height of disgruntled disapproval. “Why did I not _know_ you are going on leave? I know everything. Why didn’t I know?”

“Technically, it’s a forensic conference,” Jane snorted. “Not _leave_. So you still know about all of my leaves.”

“But you’re still going to be _gone_ ,” The Tech Analyst grumbled. “And why I no knowy?”

“Because Strauss only _just_ approved it,” Jane dismissed offhandedly, aware of the profiling eyes on her from across the bullpen. “And I didn’t even know that my request for time hadn’t completely bounced. Forgot that I even put it in, anyway.”

“Did Hotch know?” JJ asked, sidling up to them. “He looked thrown off when you told us.”

“No, Hotch did not,” Jane shrugged casually. “But that wasn’t intentional.”

“Okay …” JJ gave her an odd look. “You’re not eloping to get married in Vegas or something, are you?”

“Aw man,” The doctor deadpanned, face flat. “You found me out. Whatever shall I do?”

“Make us your bridesmaids,” JJ shot back just as dryly.

Garcia bust a gut laughing, and the topic was pushed aside.

* * *

“I’ve volunteered this team for a rather unusual consultation.” 

It had been two weeks since Jane has left on leave, and the team still felt off balance from the lack of subtle mother henning they were receiving. Reid was the most affected, because the rest of the team realized around day three that he hadn’t eaten properly since Jane left - meaning that he was probably going to be brutally bludgeoned with a broccoli head once the doctor returned and they all had to work to mitigate the damage in the meantime.

Strauss showing up to announce a consultation that hadn’t gone through Hotch - _very_ much hadn’t, based off the Unit Chief’s distinct lack of facial expression - was just icing on the disastrous, leaning-tower-like cake at this point.

All eyes are on Strauss and Hotch: a normal consult would not be given to them like this. Which meant that this was something big. ‘NDAs and don’t-even-talk-to-your-fellow-agents-about-this’ big.

“The Colemyer Legacy case is being partially reopened,” Hotch dropped like a bomb.

Immediately Reid sat up.

“This has to do with the _Colemyer_ _Massacre_?” Morgan interrupted incredulously. “I thought that was a cold case. They gave up on that as a bad job - didn’t have anyone to tie the deaths to.”

“I’m immediately lost,” Garcia interrupted him. “And based on the constipated look on JJ’s face, she is too.”

“The Colemyer _Murders_ ,” Strauss emphasized. “More officially known as the Colemyer Legacy case, are the names given to the systematic murders of 57 men, women, and children all killed within a 72 hour period. All the victims had familial or marital ties to the Colemyer Estate. No perp was found so it got hushed up.”

“The Colemyer Estate - that’s that really rich clump of families that all intermarried and basically monopolized the car industry a while back,” Garcia finally connected the dots. “Colemyer cars were _everywhere_ twenty years ago. I mean, I learned how to _drive_ in a Colemyer.”

“So did I,” Rossi deadpanned, and the room was subjected to Garcia waving a hand at the Italian man in a ‘ _See? SEE?’_ manor.

“Wait, I heard about this,” JJ mused, a pen at her chin. “It was a big deal in the press because of the inheritance dispute. No one knew where the money and property would all go, so the accounts were frozen and the patents locked down.”

“Which resulted in the Estate being worth billions and hundreds of thousands of people losing their jobs,” Hotch confirmed. “But the case was never solved. The murders were all hired guns and whoever ordered the hit was never identified.”

“Then why are we being consulted?” Emily asked, eyes furrowed. “This was a decade ago. Plus, you said ‘partially’.”

“Actually, these events occurred nearly 15 years ago almost to the day,” Hotch corrected grimmly, opening a briefcase and handing a pile of files to the agent closest to him - Morgan - who began to pass them around. “And we’re not being called in to solve the murders, which is why it is only partial.”

“A stipulation for inheritance was put in place by the old family head,” Strauss explained. “If there was ever a question of inheritance, all relevant accounts were to be frozen and companies stabilized. If a period of 3 years passed without a decisive heir - a _legally established heir_ \- coming forward, then all assets in question would be distributed to a number of charities and nonprofits that were specified. The companies and patents would be sold to the highest bidder.”

“Now most of these disputes over the years were trivial - who got what house and what shares - but with the systematic murder of the entire pool of heirs, three years was not conclusive,” Hotch continued. “Des Liber, the primary lawyer of former CEO Emmet Colemyer of Colemyer Consolidated, managed to get the entire Estate frozen for fifteen years rather than three. It is my understanding that she hoped that a living heir would step forward.”

“Is there someone she believes to still be alive?” Emily asked with confusion, glancing around the table. “15 years is an awfully long time not to have someone in mind.”

“There was only one body that was never found, wasn’t there?” Rossi chipped in for Hotch. “I consulted on this case briefly before it was taken off my hands. We never found the estranged granddaughter.”

“Yes,” Strauss confirmed, crossing her arms loosely. “Marisole Ryden. She wasn’t a direct heir, but she was still in the line. Her estranged mother, Elizabeth Colemyer, was the black sheep of the family, although she wasn’t written out of the will completely. Elizabeth Colemyer was the last to be confirmed dead, her husband and children all before her - except for Marisole.”

“So you think that she’s the lost Princess Anistasia?” Garcia clarified. “You think that she’s still alive, biding her time and tr ying not to get killed?”

“What exactly do you want us to do?” Reid spoke up for the first time, pushing aside the uneasy feeling in the back of his mind. Something about the photo of the Ryden family bothered him. “Do you want us to find her? She’d have 15 years to disappear.”

“No,” Struss shook her head. “Your unit is tasked with proving who really _is_ Marisole Ryden.”

“With all the recent media activity with the deadline coming up, the number of people claiming to be the Lost Heiress is immense.” Hotch explained. “The preliminary tests conducted by the FBI have managed to narrow down the pool to 17 women, and we have been tasked to find which - if any of them - is the real Marisole. And we have to do it in the next five days.”

* * *

**FIVE DAYS LEFT**

* * *

“Seventeen, please just back off.”

Jane looked up to see Ten trying to get the other - very aggressive - Number to get off of the fabric of her long skirt from where it was bunched on the ground; easy to step on as Ten sat reading off to the side of the room.

“Why? Are you going to make me?” Seventeen growled at her. “You’re pathetic, Ten - shouldn’t even _be_ here.”

The aura of the room - full of women all with name tags numbered 1 to 17 - was intense, and this little catfight was just the tip of the iceberg. For a week and a half the process to narrow down who - out of the pool of _hundreds_ \- actually could be the Lost Heiress was grueling. Everyone was miserable, and Seventeen - previously 239 - was not the first to lash out at her fellow Numbers. Just the loudest.

“You know I really hope you’re not the real one, Seventeen.” Jane felt herself calling over the murmurs in the room. “Because I really think it would suck if we were all vying to be someone who is such a _bitch_.”

“At least Marisole Ryden was a _rich_ bitch,” Seventeen laughed meanly. “And I need the cash. What’s it to you?”

Well the chance of her being the real one just dropped severely.

“Did you seriously just admit to not being Marisole?” Jane deadpanned. “ _S_ _eriously?_ ”  
“I did no such thing,” Seventeen smiled. “I said I needed the cash. There’s no cameras - I _checked_ \- and it’s illegal to record someone without their knowledge in this state. So who’re you going to cry your not-evidence to, _Four_?”

“You really are full of it,” Jane mused, eyebrow cocking. If only she knew. “That’s okay, we can’t all be perfect like Teddy-Bear Ten - but keep in mind that even if you _do_ make it through _all these tests_ , you’re not going to get even a _penny_.”

She’d make _sure_ of it.

“Oh, you are just _asking_ for a fight,” Seventeen growled, finally stepping off the bit of skirt she was holding hostage and stalking up to Jane.

“The agreements we all signed say that any physical altercations will result in expulsion from the tests,” Jane deadpans. “Regardless of our ‘validity.’ Am I really worth it?”

“Nah, you ain’t worth _shit_ ,” Seventeen laughed wickedly, teeth bared. “But we all already knew that.”

“Cute,” Jane smirks, shouldering her aside to go sit by Ten. Seventeen stormed away furiously.

“Thank you,” Ten smiled at her, tugging at a lock of her curly hair. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Nah, I did,” Jane corrected. “No one should have to put up with that noise.”

“Still …” Ten trailed off. “Thanks.”

They sat in companionable silence, both Ten and Jane turning back to their book and sketch pad respectively. 

Jane liked Ten. She was quiet, but not mum. She was fun to talk to once she got out of her shell a bit, and she seemed very genuine in all of her actions and words. Probably why Seventeen targeted her so much. Ten really was a Teddy Bear.

Jane knew that she wasn’t supposed to get attached to any of the Numbers - her judgment could be affected if she did - so she _didn’t_ get attached. But if she _had_ , then Jane thought that maybe she might’ve gotten attached to 146 - or, rather, Ten - the first time they met in the testing hall.

A part of Jane that she didn’t let show hoped that Ten was Marisole. She seemed like she deserved it the most.

“Do you think it’s true, what Nine said earlier?” Ten piped up after a while. “About them bringing in a childhood friend?”

“I think so,” Jane nodded, going back over the curve of the line she was trying to get _just right_ with her pencil. “But that was always going to happen. We’re all proving who _we_ are - a friend could prove who _Marisole_ is.”

Ten nods, but the agent and profiler in Jane notes how nervous she seemed by the prospect of it.

* * *

The woman is tall and bony with rich dark skin and a neat pile of box braids. She seemed no nonsense, but mostly out of weariness. She also looked like she was close to committing homicide.

“My name is Des Liber,” The woman introduced herself, adjusting her jacket - smoothing out the fabric in a stress induced tic. “I was asked to come here to provide more insight on the particulars of the … situation.”

“Forgive me, Ms. Liber,” Rossi cut in. “But what capacity are you here in?”

“I am one of the primary lawyers of the Colemyer estate, _Agent_ Rossi,” She answered waspishly. “And I’ll thank you not to look down on me because I am no Supervisory Special Agent, _sir_.”

“Agent Rossi means no offense, Ms. Liber,” Hotch tried to salvage the situation, thrown by her aggressive response.

“You were the one who pushed for the period of stagnation to be increased,” JJ remembered, twisting a pen in her hands.

“Indeed I was,” Liber nodded, calming slightly. “There was a chance that the company could be saved. I had hoped that 15 years was enough time.”

“Why did you?” Morgan asked. “15 years is a long time to wait.”

“Because, Agent, although the freezing of the Colemyer companies and patents has resulted in the loss of thousands of jobs, the dissolving of them would result in the loss of millions,” Liber broke down grimmly. “Colemyer may be an automobile company in name, but we are also in electronics productions and clothing lines, charity foundations and nonprofits. We have our fingers in all the pies across the world, and even though no new products _should_ be allowed to be created, so long as the company neither makes nor loses money in a gross capacity new products are allowed to be developed.”

“Colemyer is close to the front of innovation and R&D,” Reid confirmed for the room. “They can’t make money, so they find more cost effective ways to sell new products. They adapted. And expanded.”

“Precisely,” Liber nodded. “Despite the legal constraints, Colemyer has grown. If we were to be dissolved, the number of people who would benefit from the funds redistributed as charity would be drowned out by the sheer number of people who would lose jobs and livelihood and money. They economy could _collapse_ \- I knew that 15 years ago and I know that now. I couldn’t, _can’t,_  allow that.”

“Just to be clear,” Rossi cut in. “We are not going to blur the lines so that you find _an_ heir. Unfortunate circumstances or no, if none of those women are Marisole Ryden then we won’t fabricate results to suit you.”

“Of course,” Liber nodded grimmly. “I understand.”

“Shall we get started then?” Hotch cut through the tension. “Reid, explain to Ms. Liber what we were working on.”

The room shifted. Focus sharpened.

“We have three lists,” Reid gestured at the board as he spun a marker in hand. “The real Marisole Ryden would have a couple indisputable characteristics that would not be changed by time. Similarly, she would have a number of characteristics that _most likely_ wouldn’t change - though with trauma anything is possible and therefore a candidate could not be eliminated on failing to meet one of these alone.”

“And then we have a third category,” Morgan piped up, pulling them back on track. “We have a list of characteristics that we know that Ryden _couldn’t_ have - or at the very least is very unlikely to. These are the ones that will help us eliminate the most.”

“Like what?” Liber bristled. “We’ve already narrowed the pool down to only 17 women out of _hundreds_.”

“Those tests were based off knowledge and obvious physical impossibilities - dummy tests, if you will,” Emily explained quickly. “Because we are looking at a smaller pool, we’re able to narrow the numbers down even further.”

“We can exclude anyone with separate identities that can be tied back to before 15 years ago,” Hotch began, watching as Reid took up the role of scribe. “The initial search already took that into consideration, but our Technical Analyst will be able to look more effectively.”

“Eliminate anyone under 5’2”, Marisole’s final recorded height,” JJ added. “Along with anyone with birth defects, birthmarks, or similar identifying qualities. Medically, Marisole doesn’t stand out.”

“Anyone appearing physically younger than 25 or older than 35,” Morgan tossed in.

“I assume you’ve already matched eye color to the best of your ability?” Rossi asked, and waited until Liber nodded to continue. “Other than that, her physical characteristics could’ve changed too much with time to tell.”

“Intelligence,” Reid offered from the board. “Marisole never took an IQ test, but she was extremely intelligent. She scored high on standardized testing during her years of schooling; that is unlikely to change now.”

“Garcia, anything to add?”

The Technical Analyst had been staring at something on her screen, and had to blink herself back to the present. 

“Umm - little things,” Garcia finally found the words, tearing her eyes away from a picture of the Ryden family. “I can see if I can dig up the little things. Right handed, left handed. Number of teeth. Interesting scars. See what I can find.”

“But what about the ‘maybe’ category?” JJ asked. “We still have that empty.”

“The maybes are mostly going to be psychological and based off personality,” Rossi shook his head, stroking his beard. “Ryden was a chipper, outgoing young woman, but after so many years of potentially untreated trauma we don’t know who she is _now._ ”

“So we can’t go based off personality tests, because her personality could have changed,” Liber summarizes.

“Most likely has, in fact,” Spencer capped his marker. “The likelihood of anyone going through extensive trauma and loss without some sort of discernible shift in personality is exceedingly rare, made even more so by the severity of what Marisole has gone through at this point.”

“Marisole had to live through the systematic murder of everyone she had any familial connections to,” Emily laid out grimmly. “If that’s not trauma and loss, I don’t know what is.”

* * *

**FOUR DAYS LEFT**

* * *

“Where are we?” Ten murmured to Jane as they were glancing around the _incredibly familiar building_ they were being led into by a number of stone faced agents in suits. “We’re not in Massachusetts anymore, are we?”

“Didn’t you see the sign on the way in?” Nine asked rhetorically, nodding her head towards where they had just come from. “We’re in Quantico, Virginia.”

“As in the _FBI_?” Six’s eyes widened. “We’re going to be interrogated by the _FBI_?”

“They’re not going to _torture_ us,” Jane rolled her eyes. “Listen, it’s probably just because so much money is involved. High security for a high profile case.”

“Yeah, what Four said,” One nodded. “Plus this is a murder trial too, in a way.”

“Oh yeah, that makes me feel better,” Ten muttered caustically, and Jane had to hold back a smile.

* * *

“Okay, here’s what I’ve got,” Garcia started once the team had reconvened in the round table room. “Two, Three, Eleven, and Sixteen all have confirmed identities outside of being ‘Marisole.’ Five and Fifteen have some pretty major birthmarks going on, and according to security Fourteen’s roots are being to show through her hair dye - bit of a shoddy job there. Shoulda stayed blonde.”

“Add that to our elimination of Eight and Twelve through height and we’ve narrowed the pool down to eight Numbers.” Hotch nods, looking at the list on the board. “Garcia, have the Numbers all arrived to Quantico?”

“Yes, sir,” Garcia confirmed, typing one handedly at her laptop. “Or, rather, that’s what they told me. I still don’t understand why none of you profilers are down there … profiling.”

“Rules, Baby Girl,” Morgan told her. “We need to follow protocol. We’ve got a lot of eyes on us, and we need to narrow down the pool even further before the brass will let us even set eyes on these women.”

“In four days,” Emily grumbled.

“Rossi, go tell Liber that we’ve cut the pool down by half,” Hotch ordered. “Garcia, tell security to let the eliminated go. Reid, Prentiss, figure out how you want the intelligence tests administered.”

“What about you, me, and JJ?” Morgan chimed in. “To continue to go over the data?”

“No, we’re going to the airport.” Hotch gathered his bag. “Garcia found someone who can tell us more about Marisole herself.”

* * *

“So how did all the Colemyers die anyway?” Garcia asked JJ, sitting back in her extra-comfy chair as she adjusted her earpiece. “I’ve been so focused on narrowing down the pool for Marisole that I didn’t really have the time to go over the deaths themselves.”

“ _November, 15 years ago, a series of execution style deaths started coming through as connected_ ,” JJ started to explain. “ _Double taps - a gunshot to the head and chest. These hits came hard and fast, and eventually 72 hours had passed and everyone that was a Colemyer or held inheritance to the Colemyer money was dead._ ”  
“Except for little Marisole,” Garcia pointed out, pulling up a picture of the smiling teenager. A familiar looking teenager, at that - she probably had seen this on the news at some point.

“ _M_ _arisole Ryden and Elizabeth Colemyer were left standing the longest, yes._ ” JJ confirmed.

“Elizabeth … you mean Marisole’s mother?” Garcia pulled up the middle aged woman’s photo. “They look a lot alike. She was the last to die?”

“ _Assuming that Marisole is alive,_ ” JJ cleared her throat. “ _Marisole’s parents were divorced, weren’t they?_ ”

“Yes,” Garcia tapped at her keyboard singlehandedly as she munched at some yogurt. “Well - in a way. Arthur Ryden and Elizabeth Colemyer were never married, though they had plenty of children together. Looks like the start of their relationship crumbling was when one of their children was stillborn, and they eventually separated after Gabriel - their youngest - was born. Marisole probably barely knew her mother.”

“ _Y_ _et her familial tie through her mom is why she died_ ,” JJ sighed. “ _Seems unfair_.”

“Sugar, nothing about this is fair.” Garcia sighed, closing the photo she had up of the smiling Ryden family - a father and four kids: two boys and two girls, all happy and healthy and whole. “Let’s just hope we find this girl. How’s it going with your end … thing, task, whatever.”

“ _We’re going to the airport to pick up a man who, back in the day, was Marisole’s boyfriend_ ,” JJ told her, anticipation in her tone. “ _We’re hoping that since he volunteered to narrow down the pool, he’ll be able to identify Marisole directly."_

“Well, good luck with that,” Garcia sighed. “I should go check up on the others.”

“ _Reid still not eating consistently?_ ” JJ half-laughed. “ _Man, the sooner Jane comes back from that conference the better_.”

“I know right?” Garcia groaned. “I swear I never realized he was this bad at taking care of himself. Plus, her medical know-how could probably narrow down this pool almost completely.”

“ _Makes you wonder why we haven’t just recalled her,_ ” JJ pondered. “ _Wouldn’t be the first time one of us got called in during leave_.”

“She’s not a profiler,” Garcia pointed out, shrugging. “But anyway - Reid! Food! Liquids that aren’t coffee!”

“ _By_ _e, Pen,_ ” JJ laughed, and the blonde hung up.

* * *

“Rhys Olivier?” Hotch asked the man who approached them in the airport, extending his hand for a shake. “SSA Aaron Hotchner. These are my colleagues, SSAs Derek Morgan and Jennifer Jereau. Thank you for making the trip here.”

Rhys Olivier was a man in his late twenties, thin and tall with short dark hair. He had a boyish quality to him, and JJ figured that if the circumstances were different he would have a wide smile as he accepted Hotch’s hand. As it was, he looked weary and as if he wanted to be anywhere else right now.

“Yeah, well anything to get out of the cold,” The man smiled wryly. He raised a hand to run through his curls. “Michigan gets like that.”

“Shall we get back to Quantico?” JJ suggested, offering Olivier a smile. “We can get you settled before we walk you through what we’d like you to do.”

Olivier shook his head even as he was finishing speaking, shouldering his duffel bag. “No, let’s just get it over with.” He followed behind the agents. “I’d rather we just get right into it.”

They were silent until they got to the car, and as they loaded into the SUV Morgan began to break down the situation for him.

“What we want isn’t for you to make the final decision,” Morgan clarified right off. “You may know Marisole the best, but we can’t expect you to make that kind of call - and it wouldn’t be accepted officially anyway. Think of this as a consult. We have eight women all saying they’re Marisole, so all you have to do is talk to them. See them. See if anything looks or feels off.”

“Just talk?” Olivier shifted, uncomfortable.

“Just talk,” Hotch assured him. “If you come up with nothing, that’s okay. If you do, it’s appreciated.”

“In the meantime, do you want to talk?” JJ offered. “Do you have any worries? Anything you want us to know about Marisole?”

“Don’t call her that,” Olivier said suddenly, fiercely, before deflating just as abruptly. “Sorry - it’s just …”

“Yes?” JJ prompted gently.

“She hated that name,” Olivier admitted. “She hated her mom after she left, and it was the name her mom gave her. We always called her Mari. Or Ivy.”

“Ivy?” Morgan asked. “Why Ivy?”

“I dunno, never asked.” Olivier admitted, frustrated. “Or maybe I did but I forgot. I try not to think about them. But that’s what Arthur - her dad - called her. Family nickname, you know.”

“This all helps, a lot,” JJ assured him.

* * *

“This is far as I can go,” said Agent Hotchner - who was intimidating as hell - to Rhys. “In order to remain unbiased, the team will not be interacting directly with any of the Numbers until we’re in the final stages. Are you comfortable going from here?”

“Yes …” Rhys told him, still not feeling sure. “How long do I have to …”

“Only as long as you are willing,” Hotchner told-ordered-allowed him, and the quiet assurance was almost comfortable. Like it was a foregone conclusion that he wouldn’t be in there longer than he had to. “Knock three times on the door when you want to be let out.”

Rhys nodded in thanks, and pushed into the hall.


	19. 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, Boy Wonder, we’re doing this,” Garcia steeled herself. “Tell me what we got.”

“So … Number Four?”

Jane looked up from her book. She had heard Olivier come in, of course. Kept an eye out on how all the numbers reacted - it  _ was _ why she was here. But she hadn’t bothered to flock him like some of the Numbers had. She wasn’t Marisole, and he didn’t deserve to have yet another woman vying for his attention, trying to convince him she was.

“Yup,” Jane popped her ‘p’, sticking a finger in the spine of her book to save her place. “Still getting used to that one. Being known as a number is vaguely prisonlike. Or ... maybe more like an experiment.”

Time with the team has made her chatty, who knew?

(Aaron. Aaron probably knew.)

The skinny man sat down across from her, a slight smile on his face. “Well you are all having tests run on you.”

“Lab experiment it is,” She nodded faux sagely, feeling her lips twitch. “You are wise, grasshopper.”

Olivier laughed, strained and stressed, but he laughed. Part of Jane relaxed at that.

“So is this the part I give you my unending insistence that it is truly me and only me who is the real Frog Prince?” Jane questions dryly. “Or can we skip that part? I’ve been surrounded by jealous harpies for weeks and I really would just like a civil conversation.”

“Okay, sure,” Olivier agreed readily, just as dryly. “I’m Rhys Olivier, and I’m here to see which of you women is my dead ex-girlfriend.”

“Okay, sure,” Jane echoed with a sardonic tilt to her lips. “I’m Number Four, and I’m here to steal away the fortune of a dead dynasty. And I’m sorry for my fellow Numbers - that ring on your finger says that the ‘ex’ part really is final.”

Olivier looks down at his left hand, smiling fondly at the memories tied to the band shining there.

“What’s their name?” She asks him, nodding at his finger. 

“Kyle,” He smiled fondly,distantly, twisting it with his thumb.

“I’m happy for you,” Jane is suddenly saying, even if she doesn’t know why she really, honestly means it. “You deserve someone who makes you happy.”

He just smiles at her, a twitch of the lips.

“So, what’s your favorite color?” She changes topics abruptly, not liking the melancholy on his face.

Rhys blinks, then exaggeratedly pretends to think on it. “Gold.”

“Huh,” Jane cocks her head. “Why gold?”

“Because it always shines.”

“‘Cept when it tarnishes,” She snarks, flashing a grin of teeth.

“Fine, be that way,” Rhys huffed, though Jane can tell that he’s actually amused. “And what is your favorite color?”

“Silver,” Jane answers smoothly.

“Oh? Woulda thought black with all the goth-punk going on there.”

“Nah,” Jane shook her head. “Black is a base coat. I really like silver.”

“What, like the metal?” Rhys asked, but there’s something more to his voice.

“No …” Jane thought, pulling at the edge of her glove absentmindedly - in her distraction not catching the way he watched her movement sharply. “Well, yes. Maybe. I think that I like silver jewelry. It’s …” She trailed off.

“You think?” Olivier echoed.

Jane sighed, cursing her slip up. Best just go with the truth … if only a version of it. “Mr. Olivier, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but everyone here has a justification of why they are the perfect Marisole. The  _ real _ one. I don’t. I have a reason that I  _ could _ be Marisole.”

“How do you mean?” Rhys pressed, leaning forward in the seat he had taken. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I am an amnesiac, Mr. Olivier, and you should know that,” Jane told him bluntly. God Strauss owed her. She placed her book - which she had been gripping in her hands tightly - too tightly - on the floor beside her chair. “I hope that you find your friend, I really do. But I can’t be the one to promise that I’m her.”

Rhys studied her, eyes on her face trailing down to her hands, the way she was curled up in the armchair, the boots on her feet. He nodded, just once, but there was something in his eyes that wasn’t there when he sat down.

“Okay ...  _ Four _ ,” Rhys said as a farewell. “Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment.”

And he got up and walked away.

* * *

Olivier scanned the whiteboard and the piles of paper around the room. “You guys are really going all out, aren’t you?”

“It is very important to us that if Mari is still alive, we can pick her out of the crowd and give her the help that she needs,” Rossi told him seriously, gently.

“First time anyone in power has talked about Mari like she needs help,” Olivier laughed humorlessly, tiredly. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Emily smiled slightly, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “Now, it is our understanding that you’ve been talking to the pool of candidates.”

“Since you’ve talked to them, we’ve narrowed down our pool even further,” JJ informed him gently. “But before we tell you any details, we would like your unbiased report. Do any of the women stand out as being clearly …  _ off _ .”

“A lot, sure.” Olivier nodded. “Maybe Thirteen? Definitely Seven. But ... not really enough to eliminate them off of - not completely. Mari changed at the drop of a hat, sometimes. She used to joke that she was as constant as the wind: always there but always different.”

“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” JJ assured him. “What about those who stand out in the right kind of ways? Numbers that said the right thing, acted the right way. People like that.”

“There's …” Olivier trailed off, looking conflicted. “There’s one. Well, Seventeen and Ten both seem  _ close _ , but Number Four is the closest. She … she didn’t mob me, when I came in. Some of the Numbers came right up to me and started pushing how much  _ they _ were Mari. It … didn’t feel right.”

“But she didn’t,” Rossi picked apart carefully. “She waited.”

“She sat in the back, with a book on her lap,” Olivier described the scene. “Didn’t look at me - wasn’t even paying attention, really. When I came over to talk to her, she make sarcastic comments and then asked what my favorite color was.”

“Made you feel relaxed, like you weren’t even interviewing her,” Hotch finished his thought.

Olivier nodded. “She … her tone matched so much. Maybe a little dryer, but it was her.”

“What else did she say to you?” Hotch pressed. “Something made you remember her over all the others. Over Ten and Seventeen.”

“She said that I should know that she was an amnesiac,” Olivier admitted. “That the room was full of people that could promise they were the real Mari, but she couldn’t. And …”

He trailed off, looking down at his hand, “When Mari … when everything happened Mari and I were on the outs. We didn’t talk about it, but neither of us were really feeling it anymore. I always hoped that if Mar - if she had died, that she would’ve been happy for me. I left a place for her at my wedding.”

He took in a shuddering breath, fingers curling into tense fists.

“When Four saw my ring, she asked for Kyle’s name.” Rhys looked up at them then, and a small, pained smile was gracing his lips, “When she said that she was happy for me … it was what I always wanted to hear from her. We were best friends and … it was like having a little bit of my back, is all.”

* * *

“This Number Four...” Rossi trailed off once Rhys had left.

“She’s either Mari herself, or she’s an incredibly good and manipulative plant,” Morgan finished for him, eyes on the boards. “If you look at her data results, Four’s scores are slightly higher than the majority of the Numbers. And she matched very closely on things like dialect and handwriting.”

“Allowing for slight variation,” Reid chipped in.

“The phrase ‘allowing for slight variation’ is going to be our new slogan by the end of this case.” Emily shook her head, a smile twitching at her lips.

“We can narrow down the pool to only four of the numbers at this point,” Hotch decided. “Send everyone but Ten, Seventeen, Nine, and Four packing. We should move on to individual interviews.”

“What exactly are we looking for?” JJ asked.

“We’ve done all we can so far,” Rossi shook his head, a grim expression on his face. “Without resorting to tactics that would exacerbate undue trauma.”

“You’re saying -” JJ cut herself off and started over. “You are going to poke at them until they lash out.”

“It is very hard to fake real grief,” Emily told her quietly. “If we push these women hard enough, if and when their grief does show we will know that it’s genuine.”

* * *

**THREE DAYS LEFT**

* * *

“Alright Number -  _ Jane _ ?”

Jane looked up from where she had been picking at her nails, feeling bored and vulnerable in the quiet room she had been moved to.  _ Morgan _ .

“LeFay, what the hell?” Jane asked incredulously. “What are you  _ doing  _ here?”

“What am _ I _ doing here?” Morgan repeated back in the same tone. “What are  _ you - _ ”

He cut himself off abruptly, eyes locked on the number clipped to her chest with a sort of realizing horror that she couldn’t place.

“Morgan, Strauss asked me to be a mole for a consult,” Jane whispered furiously. “You can’t  _ be  _ here. I need to hold my cover until I get eliminated naturally.”

“Strauss put you up to this,” Morgan pried, closing the door as he finally stepped further into the room. “Does  _ Hotch  _ know?”

“ _ No _ , and if you’re working this case it needs to  _ stay _ that way,” Jane shook her head. “Part of why I’m here is also to determine the validity of the test. I walk in with all the info on Marisole Ryden, and if I can beat it then Ryden is dead.”

“I -” Morgan inhaled sharply. “Okay, I need to talk to Hotch about this.”

“Derek,  _ wait _ !”

* * *

“Hotch, get the team.” Morgan grabbed him, face deadly serious. “Hotch -  _ grab the team _ .”

“What is it, Morgan?” Emily asks as they all gather in the round table room. “I thought you -”

“Number Four is Jane.”

His statement dropped like an atom bomb. Bewildering and devastating to everyone and everything in its radius.

“Jane is at a  _ conference _ -” Hotch begins, reacting with anger and denial at Morgan’s announcement.

“Nah, man, Strauss put her up to this,” Morgan shook his head, just as frazzled. “To test our test. She walks in with all the info trying to get to the final round, acting as a mole. If she makes it to the end then we know that the trials a bust and that Mari is dead.”

“But - she couldn’t have passed all of these tests,” Dave protested, arm waving wildly at the board behind him. “Sure, some of them were just to weed out the imbeciles - you can find Ryden’s family tree online easily, plus plenty of things in her childhood. But the most of these?”

“We scrapped all the results that were of tests not conducted by us. We couldn’t guarantee their validity - but when we conducted those again she  _ passed _ them.” Reid began to pace. “The dialect and terminology she uses, the intelligence tests, the ‘little things’ - what’s the chance that Jane could have made it through all those with flying colors if she only had a file to work with?”

“Very, very slim,” Hotch sounded exceedingly -  _ exceedingly _ , 10-dead-bodies-and-more-on-the-way  _ exceedingly  _ \- grim. “Garcia? I need you to take Reid and the Black Book and find out who Jane really is.”

“Sir?” Garcia asked, startled. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am.” Hotch shook his head. “If Jane is Mari, then she’s in a lot more danger than we realized. We need to know in order to protect her. Go.”

Reid grabbed the notebook from Hotch’s bag, following the Technical Analyst out the door to her office.

“Everyone else, interview the other candidates as planned; we need to still go through this process the right way. We can’t afford to do this wrong.”

“And Jane?” JJ asks, hand clutching at her sister’s necklace. “Do we interview her too?”

“No, not yet,” Rossi decided. “We let her sit, find what we can.”

“Dave’s right,” Hotch agreed. “If we let her know that we think she actually may be Mari, her reaction may be negative.”

* * *

“Okay, Boy Wonder, we’re doing this,” Garcia steeled herself. “Tell me what we got.”

“Females reported dead or missing anywhere from 10 to 30 years ago,” Reid began. “We don’t know how old she was when she got those scars, but we do know that she can’t have been reported outside of that time frame, allowing for variability.”

“There’s that phrase again …” Garcia trailed off. “That’s a long list. Like, disturbingly long.”

“Eliminate anyone who was found, dead or alive,” Reid continued. “Shorter?”

“Not by much. What’s next?”

“Eliminate anyone who is not caucasian, hispanic, middle eastern, or black,” Reid began to flip through the notebook. “Jane’s heritage is hard to place, but those are the most likely.”

“Keep going,” Garcia nodded, fingers flying across her keys.

“Eliminate blondes, those with brown eyes, and anyone with major birth or physical defects,” Spencer began to pace. “No one with disabilities, such as blindness or deafness, or injuries such as paralysis or amputations.”

“Next.”

“Eliminate anyone who is an only child,” Reid skimmed through the notebook. “Only those with younger brothers.”

“The list is down to 273 names,” Garcia tells him. “Marisole Ryden is on this list.”

“Okay,” Ried sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, eliminate anyone below the Mason-Dixon line or on either coast. Jane’s dialect is more central.”

“198.”

“Look for some kind of tie to Vermont,” Ried leaned over her shoulder to look at the screens. “Jane once mentioned the woods there.”

“Still pretty vague, Junior G-Man,” Penelope shook her head. “But … oh.”

“What, what is it?”

“Looks like the Ryden family spent their summers in Vermont every year,” Garcia swallowed. “They went mountain climbing.”

“Garcia, we need to focus,” Reid brought her back on topic. “Anyone whose brother died.”

“10,” Garcia swallowed. 

“Any that were named ‘Bree’ or started with the letter ‘b’?”

“None,” Garcia went back to the previous list. “What do we do with this?”

“We take it to Hotch,” Spencer squeezed her shoulder. “And then he decides.”

* * *

“Yes, Aaron?” Strauss put down her pen when he stormed into her office. “What is it you need?”

“You took a member of my team and put them undercover in an exam you  _ had me run _ ?” Aaron demanded, furious. “What were you  _ thinking _ ?”

“Dr. Hart has been eliminated, then?” Strauss asked rhetorically, standing. “Frankly I’m impressed she made it this far. She’s a very versatile woman, your doctor.”

“Jane hasn’t been eliminated yet,” Hotch almost-growled. “She sat waiting in an interrogation room while Agent Morgan walked in to  _ interview her _ .”

“Why, Agent Hotchner,” Strauss frowned. “I’m rather shocked at the quality of your testing. I would have thought that your process would’ve been more thorough than that.”

“That’s just it, Erin,” Hotch frowned even further, shoulders tense. “Our elimination process has been  _ intense _ . How much were you helping her through it?”

“Not at all, after the preliminary sealing of her specific personal information and giving her the information we had on Ryden.” Now Strauss was frowning, noticing his anxiety. “Agent Hotchner, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying that Dr. Jane Hart was once Jane Doe, an unidentified amnesiac who changed her name after she got her medical degree,” Hotch stared her down. “And now Dr. Jane Hart is passing every test we’ve set up to identify Marisole Ryden with flying colors.”

“I -” Strauss was shocked. “This was not in her file.”

“Technically, it didn’t have to be,” Hotch collapsed into the chair across from Strauss as the Section Chief herself sat down. “This is going to be a problem.”

“That is putting it lightly,” Strauss cradled her face in her hands. “Have you determined that Dr. Hart is Ryden?”

“No,” Hotch shook his head. “But we’ve got Garcia on it now. You really didn’t know that she was an amnesiac?”

“No, she never told me,” Strauss sat back. “And you never did either. We’ll be discussing this later.”

“Gideon told me he had taken care of it. Apparently, he hadn’t.” Aaron gritted his teeth, cursing his absent colleague yet again. “What do we do? If we find that Jane really is Marisole, then she would have the spotlight shone on her. She would never be able to work with our team again. She would be too high profile.”

“That should not be our focus right now,” Strauss scolded him. “Finish your job. Find the identity of Dr. Hart while you’re at it. We’ll keep everything confidential until we have something more definite to work with than ‘maybe’.”

* * *

“Dave, Nine is clearly a con artist and Seventeen is just here for the money,” Emily spoke lowly to the older profiler. “We have enough to send them home. Ten is so far into her shell we can’t tell if it’s trauma or shyness or nerves. Everything points towards Jane.”

“We let them stew,” The Italian ex-marine decided. “We don’t send anyone else home yet. What did Reid and Garcia find?”

“A list of ten names,” Morgan joined their conversation. “Hotch asked us to meet in the round table room to look them over.”

They all walked in anticipatory silence.

* * *

“Good, we’re all here,” JJ grimaced when the team was all met. “So we have ten names. Gracia Hernandez, Monica Justin, Arezu Ghani, Hasanah Guler, Kylie Turner, Elizabeth Finch, Marcy Lucas, Julia Smith, Aslin Marks, and Marisole Ryden.”

“That’s still plenty of names,” Morgan crossed his arms. “Baby Girl, can you pull up pictures of each of these women when they were last seen?”

“Sure thing, Sugar Lips,” Garcia complies with less than her usual enthusiasm and cheer. The names were then matched with a variety of photos, ranging from candid photos to driver's licenses, along with ages and dates of disappearance.

“Go ahead and remove Lucas and Hernandez from the list,” Hotch spoke up after they all took a moment to study. “They’re too old to be Jane.”

“Likewise, Monica Justin - who was just a toddler when she was abducted - would be too young,” Reid. “Most likely Kylie Turner, too.”

“Any of these women could be Jane,” JJ’s eyes rake over the remaining - very similar - women. “After fifteen years these photos might be completely useless.”

“Do any of them have fingerprints on file?” Emily asked. “We have Jane’s, but she’s not in any database other than ours.”

“Say goodbye to Turner, Guler, and Smith,” Garcia types away, the photos disappearing with the others.

“Five,” JJ looked over the photos carefully. “Do they have younger siblings?”

“Arezu Ghani had a little brother named Asaiah,” Garcia pulled up photos as she spoke. “Elizabeth Finch dead Jacob and a still-living Micheal, Aslin Marks a missing Hernan and now-grown sister Amara, and Mari’s whole family.”

“I …” Reid trailed off, frowning.

“What is it?” Morgan asked, recognizing his ‘thinking face’.

“I’m just -” Reid cut himself off again, picking up a file in front of him. “Just - look at this. The Ryden children were named Adaline, Casey, Marisole, and the youngest - Gabriel.”

“And?” Emily asked.

“Well, it’s not common but - well, Ga- _ bri- _ el.  _ Bri _ .” Spencer rushed out. “And that’s what Jane called Morgan in the hospital in New York.”

“Omigod.” Garcia suddenly gasped, rushing to her computer. “ _ Nicknames _ .”

“What is it Baby Girl?”

“The tattoo,” Garcia stumbled over her words, pulling up a photo of their doctor’s back. “The one you saw in Detroit.”

“What?” JJ asked, confused. “What about it.”

“JJ, you said that  _ Olivier  _ said that Jane had a nickname in her family, right?” Garcia putting the tattoo photo up on the screen. “He said that her family called her ‘Ivy’.”

“You’re saying that -” Reid was bowled over, catching on before the others. “But -”

“It’s not Ivy as in the plant,” Emily caught up. “It’s ‘Ivy’ as in the roman numerals  _ IV _ . Like on her neck.”

“Four?” Hotch stepped closer to examine the photo more carefully. “What is the significance of that? Four children?”  
“But Marisole was the third, not the fourth - Gabriel was.” Rossi countered. 

“But Casey had a twin sister,” Garcia remembered suddenly. “A stillborn number three. If you count her -”

“Then Mari was number four,” Morgan completed the thought. “Why would she count a dead sister?”

“Mari didn’t use the name Marisole because it was the name her mother gave her,” JJ recalled Olivier say. “The relationship between Arthur and Elizabeth began to fall apart after the stillbirth. If Arthur resented that -”

“Then he would've called his next child ‘Four’ to spite Elizabeth,” Rossi nodded.

“Lotus,” Reid looked like someone had punched him. “ _ Lotus _ .”

“What?” Rossi asked, fighting through the whiplash.

“The flower, in the middle of Jane’s tattoo,” Reid flipped through the files on the table. “It’s a  _ lotus _ .”

“So, what?” Morgan drew his eyebrows together.

“So Mari’s full name is Marisole Lotus Ryden,” Reid informed them grimmly, passing the file in his hands to JJ.

Silence reigns.

“What now?” Garcia hesitantly asks.


	20. 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You think I’m Marisole Ryden?” She choked out through her snickers. “That’s absurd. Marisole is dead.”

“Jane, I need you to tell me everything you can about your past.”

Jane could hardly believe what she was hearing.

“What the hell, Dave?” She scoffed. “Nearly seven years here at the Bureau and none of you have ever pushed for that. I  _ told you _ -”

“You’ve told us almost nothing,” He cut her off swiftly. “We know almost nothing about you, Jane.”

“So?” Jane rolled her eyes. “ _ Seven years _ , Dave. And you start distrusting me  _ now _ ? What, Hotch’s got his knickers in a twist because Strauss went behind his back?  _ I _ was the one who said yes.”

“Jane,” Emily spoke up softly, drawing her attention round to where the brunette had sat while Rossi practically trembled with energy. “ _ Please _ .”

“What is this about?” She repeated for what she felt was the millionth time. “Just because you’re investigating -”

Jane felt as if she had been slapped.

Then she couldn't stop herself from laughing.

“You think I’m  _ Marisole Ryden _ ?” She choked out through her snickers. “That’s absurd. Marisole is dead.”

“Is she? We never found her body,” Emily reasoned, the level headed one in an off kilter role reversal. “And you have passed each and every one of our tests with flying colors. Why wouldn’t you?”

“Because I’m  _ not _ ,”  Jane denied again.

“ _ Why _ ?” Emily pressed, firm but tone gentle.

“I’m too old,” Jane spat out the first thing to come to mind. “Marisole wouldn’t even be 30. I’m 35, I’m too old.”

“Your age estimate was made when you were first found,” Emily reasoned again. “Around that age estimates can go wide, especially when someone is aged by trauma. The doctors, especially under experienced ones, could’ve easily undershot your age.”

“Oh, so I broke Reid’s record then!” Jane brushed off with a laugh. “Marisole Ryden would’ve been, what? Twenty-two when I joined the BAU?”

“You aren’t even considering this as a possibility,” Rossi finally stepped in again. “Why won’t you take this seriously?”

“What is there to take seriously?” Jane growled at his tone, angry and judgmental enough for her to bristle. “ _ I’m not Marisole Ryden _ ?”

“ _ Why _ ?” Emily pushed again. “Give us evidence that you’re not Marisole Ryden and we’ll believe you. We’ll put this all behind us and report to Strauss. Just  _ tell us _ .”

Jane was at a loss. She floundered.

“Jane,” Dave deflated, losing his edge. “Please, we’re worried about you. If you’re Mari then -”

Jane flinched. She didn’t even know why -

It just  _ hurt _ . Having Dave say that name.

Of course, the profilers noticed, quieting.

“Jane?” Dave tried again, repeating himself slowly. “If you’re Mari -”

_ Again _ .

“Jane, is there something wrong with what Rossi is saying?” Emily asks her softly, leaning forward as if to comfort a scared child.

Her head hurt. 

“Jane, when Rossi said ‘Mari’ -”

Emily pauses, waiting for a reaction that never comes.

“When he said ‘Mari’ you flinched, do you know why?” Emily prys gently, eyes hyper focused on her.

“I didn’t,” Jane denied fruitlessly. “Please, can you just eliminate me so I can go home and sleep?”

“We can’t yet,” Rossi brushed aside her request. “Listen, Marisole Ryden is a target. If you are indeed Mari then -”

_ Flinch _ .

A pause. Jane barely dared breathe.

“I think we should check on the progress of the rest of the team,” Emily told Rossi abruptly. “Jane, we’ll be back soon.”  
“Bye, then,” She huffed, cradling her throbbing head.

* * *

“Something about _you_ saying ‘Mari’, not me, set her off,” Emily whispered to the older profiler as they made their way to the bullpen. “She only flinched when you said it.”  
“And she realized it too,” Rossi nodded grimmly. “She just doesn’t want to accept it. She’s in complete denial.”

“She’s spent fifteen years as someone else,” Emilly reasoned, glancing over her shoulder to the room that Jane was in. “She’s a doctor. She isn’t going to believe or accept anything we say unless she has irrefutable proof.”

They arrived in the bullpen and summarized their findings to a worried and thoughtful team.

“So we just need her to remember,” Morgan crossed his arms with a frown. “Oh, simple. We can all go home now, then.”

“How can we even  _ do  _ that?” Garcia asked, eyes darting around the room. “If three weeks pretending to be … well,  _ herself _ , hasn’t triggered something. What will?”

“Rhys Olivier, maybe?” JJ offered.

“No, I think that that would be counterproductive,” Reid shook his head. “She already has categorized Olivier as someone ‘Marisole’ would know. We should focus on someone that is close to Mari that Jane wouldn’t know about through the file.”

“You said that Jane flinched when Dave said ‘Mari,’” Hotch speaks up for the first time, arms crossed and fingers curled. “But only when Dave did.”

“I said it just as much as he did and nothing,” Emily confirmed, shuffling her papers. “It wasn’t just the name - it was that  _ Dave _ said it.”

“What if it isn’t that  _ Dave _ said it?” Hotch asked, mind whirling. “What if it was because someone  _ like _ Dave said it.”

“The last time that Jane would’ve seen Olivier was when he was sixteen,” Reid realized what their Unit Chief was getting at. “He would’ve elicited little to no reaction because he was so different. Someone already old - someone similar to Rossi - would’ve struck a chord with the name ‘Mari’.”

“Hey, watch the jabs at my age,” Rossi tried to alleviate the tension, even as his quip fell flat.

“So who in Jane’s life was around Rossi’s age?” Hotch plowed on, and Garcia was already going away at her laptop.”

“Arthur Ryden had a sister twelve years older than him,” Garcia discovered triumphantly. 

“ _ Man _ , not woman, Baby Girl,” Morgan dismissed.

“No, Priscilla Ryden is dead - has been for thirty years,” Garcia grinned in victory. “And although she was never married, she was in a long term relationship with one Robert Leon, who lived not even five miles from where the Ryden family did.”

Garcia pulled up a photo of a elder man, skin tanned by sun and hair a black and salted pile very similar to Rossi’s own.

“Is he still alive?” Hotch asked urgently.

“Yes, he is.” Garcia confirmed. “Robert had no legal ties to the Colemyer family, so he’s alive and well, retired and playing copious amounts of golf down in Florida.”

The team took a second to absorb that.

“JJ, contact him and bring him in,” Hotch ordered. “I’m going to go talk to Jane.”

* * *

“Mari, hey,” Hotch greeted her as he entered the room. “Would you rather be moved to the room you’ve been staying in? It doesn’t make sense for you to stay in the interrogation room all night.”

She took a moment to blink. Something … she thought that something was wrong with his greeting. It was … she didn’t even know, but she was bored and tired and kinda just wanted to lie down for a bit.

“Whatever,” The doctor shook her head. “I just want to  _ work _ . I’ve been bored this whole week.”

“Not the previous ones, Mari?” Hotch studied her intently despite his light tone, watching as she picked up her jacket from where she’d flung it earlier. 

“Nah, they were at least full of new people the whole time,” She shrugged, following her friend out of the room. “This past one was just full of Numbers.”

“I thought you would’ve immediately started complaining about Rossi and Emily,” Aaron broke the silence after they were walking for a bit. “After all, Mari, they did accuse you of being Marisole Ryden.”

“Who I’m  _ not _ ,” She shook her head, pulling a face. “And I don’t like how they were pushing that.”

“And you really think there’s no chance, Mari?” Hotch asked mildly, but there was an off tone in his voice. She couldn’t figure it out, but she shot him a look all the same.

She pulled off one of her gloves, pushing up her sleeve to expose the worst of her cuts and scars. They stood out starkly in the artificial light of the hallway.

“Marisole Ryden never went through this,” She tugged her sleeve back down after she was sure Hotch had gotten an eyeful. “ _ I _ did.”

“And who exactly are you?” Hotch pressed as they reached her door, stopping in the hall. “Who  _ are _ you, Mari?”

“I’m -” She blinked, her brain tripping on her answer. “I don’t even know.”

Her head hurt. It hurt a  _ lot _ .

“What’s your name?” Hotch asked her, voice low and almost hypnotic with how even it was. “What is your name?”

“I’m -” She brought a hand up to her head, leaning back against the frame if the doorway. “I’m -”

“What is your name?” He asked again, and his face began to swim as she clenched her eyes shut, grinding her jaw.

A firm arm held her steady as she heard the sound of a door opening, pulling her closer as they maneuvered into the room.

“Just leave me alone,” She half begs, cradling her head. She felt disoriented.

The man - she knew him, didn’t she? - sat her down on the bed, and a thrill of alarm rushed through her at the thought of being alone with a stranger.

But he … no, he wasn’t a stranger.

The man - who she knew, didn’t she? - was talking, not to her - to someone with a low urgent voice that she couldn’t hear right. Phone?

“What is your name?” He asks her again, and she presses the heels of her hands against her eyelids even as she shakes her head, refusing to answer.

“I need you to tell me your name,” The man insists again, and she doesn’t want to hear it doesn’t want to think about it doesn’t want to list don’t want to want to don’t want to  _ don’t want to  _ -

“Hotch, what -?” 

Her eyes fly open and there’s someone in the doorway.

“Case,” The name flies out of her mouth before she knows where it came from. “Casey, what’s -”

“What did you call him?” The man - who looks like Dad but isn’t because Dad never looked at her like that - asked again. So many questions. Her head  _ hurt -! _

There were more people in the doorway. More people in the  _ room _ .

“What’s your name?” The first man asks again when it’s clear she isn’t going to answer, and she holds back a whine in the back of her throat.

“I don’t -” She tries and fails to talk.

“Hotch, don’t push her like this,” Uncle Rob tells the first man off. No, not Rob. Not Case. Not Dad.

“We need to push her to remember,” Hotch - the first man - shoots back, and she just wants to curl up in a ball because her  _ head hurts _ .

“Your head hurts?” A woman with dark hair that she  _ knows _ asks her, approaching her slowly like a skittish deer - is she a deer? Did she say that out loud? Is she speaking or thinking?

Is she a deer?

“Hotch, let me try,” A tall man steps forward. Who-?

“Hey, it’s me,” The man crouches in front of her, taking her hands. She - she knows him. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” She chokes out. “No. I don’t know.”

“ _ Think _ ,” He presses, and something about the look in his eye sets something off in her.

“Bree.”

She’s crying. She’s crying.

“No, you’re not,” She shakes her head. “You’re not Bree because Bree is dead. I  _ know _ you’re dead. I  _ saw you die _ .”

“I’m right here,” He comforts her, and he pulls her into a hug. “What’s your name?”

“I’m -” Her head is spinning even more. She can’t breathe. “Jane.”

“You’re Jane?” Hotch - that’s  _ Hotch _ \- asks her, voice low and level. “Is that your only name?”

“No, I’m Jane,” She thinks, voice trembling. “But I’m also -”

“Who are you?” Hotch steps forward, locking eyes with her over Not-Bree’s shoulder.

“Head hurts,” She - whoever she is - wimpers, and she thinks she’s gonna faint.

“Shit,” Not-Bree, swears as she begins to go limp. “Reid, get over here.”

“What’s going on?” Another woman’s voice comes, sounding concerned - for her? Why would someone be concerned about a No One?

There are fingers on her neck, probing her face and pulling at her eyelids. She doesn’t like it, she tries to pull away, but she’s being held still by the arms caging her.

“Her brain is fritzing,” Not-Case speaks, pulling her out from Not-Bree’s arms and laying her back on the bed. “She suppressed all of this for a reason, and with too much coming out she can’t keep up.”

She can’t  _ breathe _ .

“ _ Shit _ ,” Hotch swears softly, and she can feel her head swimming as she gasps desperately for air. “Reid -”

Someone is pulling at the strap across her chest, tugging it over her head. There’s a rustle of fabric, thick fabric, and then a pinch at her neck -

She sinks down into oblivion.

* * *

Reid removes his hand from their doctor’s neck, watching as her eyelids fluttered and she fell into unconsciousness. The sound of him capping the syringe in his hand seemed to echo in the silent room.

“That’s why she could never remember,” He speaks, turning to look at his team. “Her subconscious won’t  _ let _ her. She’s in denial, and pushing only confuses her. She’s not going to remember anything unless she had no choice  _ but  _ to.”

“She didn’t even react when I called her ‘Mari’,” Hotch brushed aside a lock of Jane’s hair. “She took it in stride, barely noticing it, until I pushed her. Asked her to make a choice of name. She could walk right into her old bedroom right now and only see it as an old crime scene.”

“What can we do?” Garcia asks, horrified as she wiped tears from her face. “She needs to be recognized - not just for her, but for the sake of the people relying on Colemyer. And it’s our  _ job _ -”

“We have to convince her without making her look into her memories,” Rossi thinks aloud. “If we can show her proof that she, as a doctor, can’t refute then she will have to accept it.”

“Like what?” Emily laughed harshly. “There’s nothing that we haven’t already tested.”

“Except for DNA,” Reid cuts in. “We never had a sample of her DNA.”

“Can we get one now?” Morgan stood from where he was sitting on the bed. “We need something physical, yes, but maybe not DNA. JJ, you contacted Robert Leon, right?”

“Yes, he’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

* * *

**TWO DAYS LEFT**

* * *

Jane woke up with a hangover. Sorta.

“Jane?” 

She pushed herself up, glancing over how she had seemingly fallen asleep in bed with her clothes still on, although her bag and boots were set off on a chair beside her bed. She scrubbed a hand over her face, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

“Morn’, Emily,” She yawned, massaging away a pain in her neck.

“How are you feeling?” Emily asks her, an odd note to her voice. Jane is too groggy to care.

“I don’t know what the hell I drank last night, but I don’t think I was supposed to,” Jane joked weakly. “I have a killer headache.”

“You blacked out, then?” Hotch - when did he get there - spoke from the doorway. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Ummmm,” Jane had to think, reaching for her water bottle to sate her parched throat. “You and I were walking back to my room - to here. God, I hate you - did you break into Rossi’s office and steal his scotch or something?”

“Or something,” Aaron answers noncommittally. “Well, now that you’ve been eliminated you’re mostly out of the process. Unless you found anything off about Number Ten?”

“Teddy Bear Ten?” Jane asked rhetorically as she began to pull on her boots. “Nope. Kinda wish it’d be her, really. I think she deserves it the most. She the only one left?”

“She’s the only one not eliminated,” Emily corrects her cryptically.

* * *

Robert felt a little bit like he was walking to his death.

The blonde woman who picked him up from the airport was smiling at him, but the ice that formed in his stomach whenever he thought about little Ivy was still there. The hope painful, because he didn’t know what was worse. Her being alone and afraid or her being dead with her family. Where he may never see her again.

It all hurt.

“This way, Mr. Leon,” The Agent - Media Liaison, whatever - directed him, and he adjusted his strides to follow her into a briefing room full of more agents. The part of him that used to be a Naval officer stood at attention at the cool confidence in the room. The uncle in him wanted to punch all of them and get to his niece.

“Mr. Leon, my name is David Rossi,” A man a couple years younger than him with a military bearing - Marines, he’d bet - introduced himself, extending a hand which he took on autopilot. “Has Agent Jearau told you about why you are here?”

He shifted his weight, his joints groaning, and took his time to scan the boards around him before he answered. “She told me that your amnesiac coworker may be my neice, but is in complete denial and you need to figure out how to get her to remember without completely shattering the trust she has in you or traumatizing her any further than she already is, is that correct?”

Robert tore his eyes away from a picture of Arthur and his kids, and turned to face Rossi again. “Is that  _ correct _ ?”

He was so tired.

“Mr. Leon, I understand that this is very difficult for you,” A tall, serious looking young man - so much like Arthur when he was stubborn. God, he missed that man. “But after talking to Jane -  _ Mari _ \- last night, it seems as though we have another option we have to consider.”

“Jane?” Robert felt himself curious, looking over the agent carefully. “She called herself Jane?”

“Dr. Jane Hart,” A wiry young man spoke up, cleared his throat - shifting awkwardly when Robert turned his gaze on him. “She is one of the youngest and most qualified medical examiners and forensic pathologists in the country. She’s saved and helped save thousands of lives, including most of the agents in this room.”

Robert felt a smile tug at his lips at the young man’s ernest and open face. “I always knew she would save the world,” He almost-laughed. “She always was the type.”

“Mr. Leon -”

“Robert,” Robert cut the serious man off. “Call me Robert. My niece saved your life, and I bet you saved hers. Robert.”

“Robert,” He started again. “I am sorry to be so direct with this, but time is a factor we must consider. Last night, I went to talk to Jane; she and I are friends and I hoped that a less formal approach to finding her memories would be more effective.”

“Hotch -” The skinny kid took up (was that the serious man?) “- tried to talk to Jane, but she couldn’t remember. Actually  _ could not _ , as her psychological reaction to being pressed resulted in her becoming severely disoriented and then having a panic attack.”

Robert gulped. 

“We are certain that our Jane and your Mari are the same person,” Hotch - probably - told him grimmly. “And with the sample of DNA you brought in we’ll be able to prove it. But we are very wary of pushing her to realize that. As you are the last living relative of Mari, we need your permission as you hold power of attorney.”

“Permission to what?” Robert can’t even fathom what they could be getting at. “You can’t push her - she’ll break!”

“That is precisely what we’re saying,” Agent Jearau soothed him. “We want to work with you and the lawyer of the Colemyer estate so that Jane can be recognized as the heir without her knowing.”

“What? Why?”

“The dissolving of the Colemyer estate would be very dangerous to the world economy,” The skinny kid chipped in again. “And with that hanging over us we can’t give Jane -  _ Mari _ \- the help she needs. If we work together, we can get Jane acknowledged as the heir, keep the company running, and then we can begin to introduce the idea of Jane being Mari to her without harming her in the process.”

“And you need me to say ‘yes,’” Robert sighed. They nodded. “Okay,  _ okay _ .  _ Yes _ , okay? Can I see her?”

* * *

“Jane, you busy?” 

She looked up from her backlog of paperwork to see JJ and Aaron standing in her doorway, Aaron inscrutable as ever and JJ looking - oddly enough - a bit nervous. 

“I’m just drowning in paperwork, no big deal,” She answered her Unit Chief's question. “You need something?”

“Just hoping you would sit with a guest,” JJ told her chipperly. “Robert has some time to kill, and I’d stay with him but we need to wrap up the Ryden case and I need to contact Liber about some arrangements to be made.”

“So you don’t want to leave some poor sap in the waiting area for goodness knows how long,” Jane finishes for her, shooting Aaron a brief glare in momentary memory of her hangover. “Sure.”

With a wariness that she couldn’t place the reason for, the agents walked away and left an older gentleman lurking in her doorway, hands clutching a small box in his hand. He looked ...

Jane smiled at him wryly, tilting her head to the chair across from her.

“My name’s Dr. Hart,” She introduced herself as the man walked over, his eyes never leaving her face. “They call me Jane. Do you know how long you’ll be here?”

The man seemed to take a moment to find his voice, his eyes flickering around the office. “Whenever Agent Hotchner comes back, I suppose.”

“He’s intimidating,” She nodded, closing the file in front of her and sitting back, discarding her pen. “But he’s a good guy. The best.”

“You’re … friends?” He asked almost desperate, somehow. “You’re there for each other?”

“He’s the reason I’m still here,” She smiled smally.

“I’m -” He chokes up, and Jane sits forward, worried. 

“Sir?”

“Robert,” He corrects immediately, and he relaxes as she nodded. “I’m … I’m fine.”

“You, well you don’t really look fine,” She rebukes him gently. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He nods, studying the box in his hand. 

“I … my niece is in a lot of trouble,” He admits. “And I can’t do anything to help her. I have to trust that … that those Agents out there are going to be able to help her when I can’t. And I barely  _ know _ them and -”

“And she’s all you got,” Jane finishes for him, recognizing the look on his face. She saw it in the mirror whenever one of her team gets a little too close to death.

He nods again. They fall into silence.

“Aaron - Agent Hotchner, Hotch - wasn’t actually the one who recruited me to the BAU,” Jane begins to speak after a moment, twirling a paperclip between her fingers. “A man named Jason Gideon was. And Gideon didn’t tell Aaron anything about me - only that I was a doctor and that I was good.”

Robert’s eyes wouldn’t leave her face. He was paying rapt attention. She didn’t know why she was telling him this. She didn’t tell _ anyone  _ this.

“When I came to the BAU, I was a mess,” She admitted wryly, rubbing her forearm absentmindedly. “I walked into the bullpen with no warning, skirting through the halls dressed in all black, grumpy and hungry. I am told that I was quite a sight.”

She laughed, practically a snort, and her guest seemed to relax at that sound.

“Gideon found me staring down some upstart agent who tried to read me the Riot Act for having muddy boots - he managed to pull me into Hotch’s office before I tore the guy’s head off,” Her eyes went a little distant as she recalled the day. “Now, Hotch was expecting a talented doctor, probably some professional, middle aged woman with pressed slacks and heels - but when a short, twenty-something  _ angry  _ woman was practically shoved into his office spitting nails, he actually went speechless. Something, that if you know him, is very difficult to do.

“But he went through the formalities anyway, the questions and the paperwork. Eventually he hired me. But that’s not what was impressive about Aaron.”

Robert shifted as she pulled her attention back to the room, to the man in front of her; she smiled another small, sad smile at him.

“Aaron knew that I was sketchy as hell, that I was clearly from someplace he never wanted to contemplate. The kind of place you see in case files,” She sighed, stretching her neck absently. “But he didn’t pretend to be ignorant. He told me: ‘I know that where you come from was hell’ - he used that word,  _ hell _ \- ‘but I’ll make you a deal. You care about people.’

“And he stopped talking, just then. Waited until I nodded indignantly, then he continued: ‘So I’ll make you a deal. You accept our help, and I’ll guarantee that there will never be a time that we won’t accept yours.’”

Robert wiped away tears; Jane pretended that she couldn’t see them.

“Aaron didn’t  _ have to _ ,” She clarified,  _ needed _ to clarify. “He couldn’t’ve said anything. Could’ve refused to hire me outright, or made a stipulation. But he made it so I almost had to stay, and as I did, he would be able to help me no matter what.”

Robert swallowed roughly, pushing back more tears. 

“I’m glad he’s looking after my niece, then.”

* * *

“So, you’re number Ten - or, should I say Mallory Sosa?”

Rossi studied the woman in front of her, looked at the way her shoulders curled with guilt even as her spine straightened with determination. She was a strong woman, even if you needed to take a second to realize it.

“I cannot be charged for being here, I signed that paper just like everyone else did,” Mallory stated, refusing to apologize.

“Why?” Emily asked, pressing the woman. “Why would you devote so much time to becoming Marisole Ryden? The money?”

“ _ No _ .” The slight woman shoved back, steel coming forth - offended at the thought. “My whole family relies on Colemyer for our jobs. Our  _ lives _ . My older brother realized that the company would be dissolved if an heir was never decided.”

“So, what?” Rossi smirks. “You thought that you’d pay some hacker to hide your identity, and then you’d swoop in and get the fortune for your own?”

“ _ No _ ,” Mallory insisted again. “I was going to fake it long enough to abolish the heir system, then come forward. If it meant that my family wouldn’t lose their jobs, their homes, their pension, then that’s fine, isn’t it?”

She took a deep breath. Gathered herself.

“So it’s Four, then, isn’t it?”

Mallory watched as the two agents exchanged speaking glances. 

“Ms. Sosa, we have a proposal for you.”

* * *

Hotch watched Jane as Robert was escorted out by JJ and an unusually blank-faced Morgan. He was watching her like he did right before he logged something in the book. Like whatever he was seeing, he had to commit to memory perfectly - if only long enough to transcribe it all the moment that she left the room.

They always were polite enough to profile her when she wasn’t in the room.

“What did you think of him?” Aaron asks casually, so casually that she knows it’s a test, somehow. She figures she has nothing to lose from answering honestly - not worth the effort, anyway.

“He is a very sad man,” She sighed, stepping level with him and pulling up the edge of his sleeve to slip her fingers along his wrist. “And … I feel for him.”

“Feel  _ what _ ?” Aaron presses.

“Feel … like he and I share some pain,” Jane half-muses, then blinks herself out of it. “I don’t know why. I’ve never met him before.”

She removes her hand from his wrist, and catches a package sitting on the arm of her guest chair. She frowns, recognizing it as something that the older man had carried with him when he entered.

“Hey, Aaron,” She pulled his attention to it. “Is Robert out of the building?”

“Oh, that,” Hotch almost-dismissed the box, small enough to fit in her hand. “He meant to leave that, although I imagine not exactly with you. It’s a gift.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head, opening the box - lifting the lid carefully - at her friend and Chief’s nod of permission. “What for?”

“We helped him find someone, even if they were not the same person he lost,” Hotch answers vaguely, and she shrugs off the lack of detail as necessary for confidentiality. Jane’s a doctor, she gets that.

“So …” Jane tilts her head, taking in the silver c-bracelet resting in a small cushion within the box. “Jewelry was his thank you?”

“Apparently y- … the person he lost wore a c-bracelet every day, a habit she’d had since she was a kid,” Aaron stepped forward to pick up the silver piece of jewelry. “Robert apparently thought that one for us was appropriate.”

“Should the team take turns?” Jane jokes, even as she feels oddly uncomfortable with the suggestion. “I mean, it looks very much like something that Emily would wear.”

“How about you wear it first then?” Hotch offered, an odd note to his voice. “I know you didn’t work Robert’s case, but you did keep him company and he left it in your office. When you feel like passing it on, you can. No rush.”

Jane shrugged, pulling fabric aside to make room for the bracelet on her wrist, her fingers pulling it on in a smooth motion she couldn’t explain. A satisfied smile graced her lips once the cool metal hit her skin, but she pushed it back as she tugged her glove back into place.

“Well, at least Penny can’t get mad at me for having  _ no _ color in my wardrobe,” She joked.

Hotch smiled at her, even if it was a little too sad -  her sense of humor wasn’t  _ that _ bad was it?

* * *

**DEADLINE - MET**

* * *

“Mr. Leon, I’m glad that you could join us,” Hotch shook Robert’s hand when he entered Strauss’ office. Quick introductions flew around, and two BAU agents, a Section Chief, a worried Uncle, and company lawyer all sat down to talk.

“Mallory Sosa has agreed to be the public face of Marisole Ryden, as limited as that will be. In a year, we will declare her as a fake.” Liber assured the room, “I managed to get a compromise that the heir does not need to actually be present if an appropriate proxy is available.”

“The proxy being Mr. Leon,” Rossi clarified, and nodded when he received a confirmation. “And you’ll handle the company completely?”

“I won’t be involved, but Liber will be,” Robert told the room gruffly. “They’ll just keep doing what they have been.”

“While also taking advantage of our lifted restrictions,” Liber added smuggly. 

“Now there is the issue of Dr. Hart - Mari, that is,” Strauss corrected herself. “And the best way to address her amnesia.”

“The best way to address her amnesia is not to,” Hotch insisted, gaining the attention of the room. “The more we push her further back into her shell she retracts.”

“Now that we know who she is, we can begin to encourage behavior and the recovery of memories and old personality traits that she used to have,” Rossi expanded. “It will take time, lots of it, but she’s shown progress since she began to wear that bracelet.”

“She’s smiled more, and been more interactive with strangers,” Rossi confirmed. “We keep a log even still of her recovered memories and slips, and Dr. Reid has insisted that the rate has increased drastically.”

“We are doing what we can,” Hotch assured Strauss - but especially Robert. “It is not going to be a fast process, and we need to be careful not to uncover undue trauma, but we are doing everything to help Jane. Help  _ Mari _ .”

“Okay,” Robert chokes out, scrubbing his eyes. “Thank you.”

* * *

“So did we ever end up finding Marisole Ryden?” Jane asks Hotch a week later - and if Aaron wasn’t so worried about how long it took for Jane to reorder her thoughts to ask essential questions, he would’ve found her ‘oh wait,  _ shit _ ’ face hilarious. She didn’t use it often.

“Officially, Number Ten has been declared the heir,” Rossi tells her, and Hotch approves of his lack of using names.

“Oh, that’s good,” Jane looked pleased. “I liked her.”

“I’m glad,” Hotch smiled, and the tension over the last week finally beginning to abate as Jane dismissed the topic entirely in favor of her charts.

* * *

“Hey, Four,” Morgan called from her doorway - for some reason sticking with that stupid nickname. “Someone here to see you.”

Jane looked up from where she was repacking her go bag to see Rhys Olivier standing in her doorway with another man, whose fingers were threaded through his. He looked nervous, like Robert had a few days ago, but Jane stepped up to greet him all the same.

“Mr. Olivier,” She smiled, glancing to his companion. “And this would be Kyle?”

Kyle nodded and stuck out his hand, studying the woman he’d heard so much about. 

“We wanted to thank you,” Rhys speaks after their hands drop. “I know that you put a lot of time into the elimination process, and that it isn’t typically your field.”

“I’m just glad something came of it,” Jane shrugged with a smile. “It would’ve been a pity if it was all for nothing.”

“We …” Kyle begins to speak, exchanging a glance with Rhys. “We were going to get some lunch before our flight, and were wondering if you wouldn’t want to come with us? Our treat - a thank you for all your hard work.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” Morgan is suddenly enthusing. “I’ll tell Hotch.”

Jane blinked, a little bewildered, but then shrugs again. 

“Why not?” She laughs.


	21. 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, names are like shoes. You gotta break them in before they feel right."

“Robert,” Hotch hear Morgan call out, his voice laced with surprise. “We didn’t expect you back for another couple weeks.”

Hotch stood, stepping out of his office and scanning the bullpen for any sign of Jane. She should’ve been off on a consult, but there was every reason to be cautious. If she asked too many questions about Robert, it could impede her recovery.

“Mr. Leon,” Emily joined Morgan as Hotch picked his way over. “I know that this situation is difficult but it’s important that we approach this carefully.”

“I know that,” The older man snapped, fingers flexing around the grip of his cane as he lifted a notebook higher. “But Agent Hotchner said to get this information to you as soon as possible.”

“No, Robert,” Hotch cut in. “I told you to _ begin to  _ compile the information as soon as possible so you could add to it as you remembered more. I never said you should bring it in, and certainly not in person.”

“I -” Robert huffed. “I just -”

“You wanted to see her, and that is completely understandable,” Hotch soothed him, extending a hand to take the notebook. “And this is going to be very helpful. But we can’t afford to be sloppy, especially since Jane - since  _ Mari _ has had profiler and FBI agent training herself.”

Robert just nodded.

“Do you want to sit down and go over this?” Hotch asked, tilting his head with a slight smile. “We can’t do it here, or now, but if you want to talk then that’s something I can arrange.”

“No,” Robert just laughed, his lips tugging into a wry, self deprecating smile. “It’s all there.”

And then Jane walked in.

“Morgan, walk him out the side way,” Hotch quickly orders, eyes on where Jane was in a halfhearted argument with Reid. “I’ll distract her.”

“ - you are a coward and if you even  _ think _ about trying that with me I will stuff your nostrils with pineapple and sew them shut,” Jane is threatening, a finger jabbed in Reid’s face even as she fought back a smile.

God, she was so much more animated.

“That’s pointless if you’re trying to get me off your back,” Reid just laughs at her. “You’d just have to undo your work and save me.”

“Why are we threatening Jane?” Hotch asks, bodily blocking Jane’s view of the bullpen.

“Well you see -” Reid starts before part of a bagel is shoved into his mouth.

“Eat more,” His fellow doctor ordered, effectively shutting him up.

JJ joined them then, a pile of files in her arms - which she then passed to Hotch. “Sorry to interrupt … whatever this is,” Their Liaison spared Reid and Jane a confused look. “But I’ve scheduled a consult at the moment with a case I think we should take. Round table room in an hour?”

“Whenever you need us,” Hotch nodded, sliding the notebook under a file and passing them both to Reid to read over. “I’ll pass these around, get to your consult.”

JJ nodded, walking off at a clip; Reid gave Hotch a meaningful look, fingers curling around the load in his hands and nodding toward Garcia’s office. 

Hotch just blinked back and redirected Jane towards her office.

“Okay, what the heck?” Jane laughed, cramming the rest of her bagel into her mouth. “I mean, I love you Rin but you have been acting  _ weird _ recently.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Aaron just smiled at her. “But have you read that book Reid lent you?”

“ _ Tuck Everlasting _ ?” Jane snorted, fingers going to the bracelet around her wrist. “Yeah. I don’t read much, but it was short. Babbitt is good. Don’t know why he would read it, though - it’s a kids book.”

“Nostalgia?” Hotch shrugged, eyes on her face - every part of her body language.

“I guess,” She shrugged right back, making her way around her desk. “Just strange - I typically think of Baby Spinner reading, I dunno. _ War and Peace? _ ”

“I can see that,” Hotch settled down across from her. “So should I give it a read myself?”

* * *

“Everyone, this is Agent Russell Goldman from the San Diego White Collar team,” JJ introduced the older man in an out of style suit, passing Jane a file as she spoke. “This is everything Garcia pulled together on him for you.”

Jane smiled in thanks at the both of them, immediately reading through it even as Goldman seemed to get extremely flustered.

“I’m sorry, why do you need my file?” Goldman is asking, most likely aimed at her, but she’s looking over his recorded BP and doesn’t feel like answering - and she doesn’t need to anyway, her team has it covered.

“She’s our doctor,” Rossi had pity on the desk agent. “As long as you are working with us, she’s in charge of your health and wellbeing. She can’t do that if she doesn’t know your file.”

They go into the briefing as she continues to read, eventually turning to the case file as well, tuning in to their discussion.

“Do you have physical evidence confirming it's your guy?” Morgan was asking, skepticism tracing his words.

“No, but for her to be murdered the night that we spoke, I don't think it was a coincidence,” Goldman frowns, picking at his nails.

“No sign of forced entry, theft, sexual assault, or any further disturbing of the scene - that all says personal motive,” Jane contributes, panning through the crime scene photos in front of her. “I’d say either a partner or a client, possibly both.”

“What's his hustle?” Emily asks.

Reid was giving her an appraising look, and Jane returned it with confusion.  _ ‘What?’ _ She mouthed at him. He just shook his head, wiping his face clean.

Jane tunes into the rest of the briefing, eyes on the face of the dead woman in her file.

What was going  _ on? _

* * *

“I can't believe you guys have your own jet,” Goldman leans over Rossi to peer out the window. Jane has to hold back a laugh at the disgruntled look on the Italian’s face.

“We take turns piloting,” Emily offers with false ernest. “You want to give her a try?”

Jane skirts around the White Collar agent, plopping herself down next to Morgan.

“LeFay,” Jane greets him, reaching over to flip his file shut. “So you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“What are you talking about, Four?” He asks, brows furrowing with a touch of confusion.   
“Oh, come _on_ ,” Jane punches his arm. “You know what I mean - you’ve all been acting strange and I want to know why.”

“Strange?” Morgan repeated, and now he’s  _ definitely _ not confused. Just hiding something.

“Cute,” She sighed, giving up with Goldman giving them strange, prying looks. “This isn’t over.”

* * *

“Morgan and Prentiss, go to her house. Take Jane with and - Agent Goldman why don’t you join them?”

“I sent his case files to the field office.” Goldman blinks at him in confusion, fumbling for words. “Shouldn't I stay with you and help you sift through them?”

“I'd like to go through them independently, come up with our own theories,” Hotch shook his head. “See if any behavioral patterns emerge that'll help us get ahead of him.”

* * *

Morgan pulled him aside as soon as the plane landed.

“Jane’s asking questions,” Hotch supplied before Morgan could say anything. 

“What do we tell her?” The younger man half-groaned, his muscles flexing with how tensely he was crossing his arms. “That we’re … what?”

“She’s getting better,” Hotch mirrored his posture. “We can’t jeopardize that.”

“I -” Morgan laughed, eyes turning to where JJ and Jane were deep in conversation. “She punched me, in the arm. When was the last time she initiated casual contact? Not for her job, or to comfort a victim. Just to touch for the sake of it.”

“Never,” Hotch shook his head wistfully. “Tell her to talk to me about it. I’ll come up with something.”

* * *

“She was a real estate agent,” Emily picked up a frame. She felt Jane brush past her to the spot where the victim’s body was recovered. 

“She was doing well for herself,” Goldman agreed, looking lost in the foyer. “Until William came into her life.”

“Why do you call him that?” Emily put the picture back down, facing him.

“He -” Goldman gathered himself, a touch embarrassed. “Introduced himself as Bill, Billy, or Will several times in his early cons. My guess is that his real name may be some form of William.”

“So most of his victims were very wealthy, right?” Emily pointed out, studying Goldman. 

“You should see some of their mansions,” Goldman agreed.

“Well, I'm looking around this house and it's nice - but no mansion.”

“If the numbers from the file are right then she didn’t invest as much as his other victims, either,” Jane called from the adjacent room. “Em, come see this.”

“Yes?” Prentiss made her way over, Goldman trailing awkwardly behind.

“This glass covering is completely shattered, most likely from where her head was rammed into it,” Jane gestured to a large frame on the wall. “Between her long fingernails and the sharp edges, the chance of our UNSUB not having cuts on his hands is slim. I’m going to check in with the morgue, see if any trace DNA can be found and if it’s in VICAPP.”

“You found that by looking over the scene?” Goldman asked, shyly glancing to and away from Jane. “You must be very talented.”

“I have crime scene investigative training,” Jane nodded, pulling off her gloves. “I’ll check the house a bit more before I go.”

* * *

“The CIA assigns an agent two or three aliases at most,” Rossi is writing on the board as Jane walks in. “Any more than that and it’s difficult to keep the names straight.”

“This guy's juggling 10,” Reid scrolls through the pages on the laptop, and Jane pulls up a chair next to him.

“Being all these people, that's gotta start fracturing him somehow,” Rossi points out, and again there are more eyes on her. 

“What?” She asks, eyes swiveling between Hotch and Spinner.

“Anything to add?” Aaron asks, tilting his head.

“On the name thing?” She asks a little incredulously. “Well, names are like shoes. You gotta break them in before they feel right. The less you tie to the name, like memories or events, the less comfortable the shoe. ‘Hart’ was a shoe I wanted to wear - a pair of comfy combat boots, say. But if he’s juggling a whole closet then his toes are going to be pinched.”

Rossi and Aaron both look thoughtful, nodding. Spinner is smiling a smug little smile at her.

“If his memory is strained, it could be causing him to lose control,” Spinner gets back on topic after a moment.

“We have the current aliases,” Hotch agrees. “We just need to know who the clients are.”

* * *

The boat is far nicer than Jane had ever been before. Except for the dead body on it, that is.

“Checkbook is dated, but there’s no name,” Jane touches the legal pad lightly with a gloved finger. “No name ...”

“The unsub got  _ that  _ close to getting his money, somehow failed, and then did this,” Emily extrapolated, standing with Rossi over the body. 

“And this is overkill,” Rossi gestured. “He bashed his head in. He's completely unhinged and devolving fast.”

“It’s the  _ name _ ,” Jane repeated, standing and replacing the covering over Mickelson. “Date, pen, no name. Y'all were right, he can’t keep them straight. Probably snapped when he gave the wrong one and had to flounder.”

“Only he doesn't know he’s devolved this much,” Emily realized. “He's still trying to go to work - and he doesn't know he's in danger of losing it at any minute.”

“How many names has he got left again?” Jane asked grimmly.

* * *

“Jane, did you get anything from the morgue?” He asked the doctor, pulling a chair next to where she was glancing over a file.

“Blookwork under the fingernail of the first victim has yet to come back, but if this guy has been as careful as we think then it’s not going to lead us anywhere recent,” Jane shook her head, closing the folder. “But they’re rushing it through anyway, even if the results are most likely going to come in too late to be of any use.”

She turned to face him with an expectant look on his face and Hotch steeled himself for the conversation to come.

“I know you talked to Morgan,” He started for her, extending his wrist to her. “And I know you’re getting frustrated.”

“That’s  _ one _ way of putting it,” She grumbled back. “Why won’t you tell me anything?”

“Because if we say exactly what we’re doing then it might stop working,” Hotch replied cryptically. “Jane, I want you to think. For the past couple weeks, has anything felt different?”

“ _ Felt _ different?” Jane echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Think, when we asked you about names - was there anything  _ different _ about how you answered?”

“I …” Jane blinked, and Hotch knew that he was getting into dangerous territory. “No?”

“Jane, you used a  _ metaphor _ ,” Aaron smiled at her. “That’s not something you do, not like that.”

“So …” Jane’s mind is racing behind her brow. “You’re doing something. Making me … something.”

“We’re not  _ making _ you anything,” Hotch shook his head, stepping closer. “We’re just trying some things out.”

“And when Spinner stares at me for no reason or you ask me questions for no reason?”

“Just ignore the looks and answer best you can,” Hotch smiles, gathering himself to stand. “C’mon, we have a profile to give.”

* * *

When the case is over, Emily slides next to her in the jet.

“I think Goldman had a crush on you,” She smiles, and Jane immediately wants to sink into the seat. Or through the bottom of the jet and straight down to the ground far below.

“Ew,” She shuddered. “Just - no.”

“I dunno, I think you would’ve been cute together,” JJ chimes in. “He’s shy, you’re … you.”

“No, complete that thought,” She twisted around, deadpan. “I  _ dare _ you.”

“I mean, you did smile at him,” Spinner adds his two cents, and she’s mandating vaccinations for  _ all of them _ . “You don’t do that often.”

“I  _ smirked _ ,” Jane corrects, trying to bury herself into her charts. “And I smirk. Deal with it.”

“O- _ kay _ ,” Hotch swooped in to save her, even if he was fighting back a smile himself. “Leave her be.”

Morgan was still singing ‘sitting in a tree’ behind her, but the rest of the team shut up

* * *

After Jane went home, they gathered in the Round Table Room. 

“So I read over the journal that Robert gave us, and with Garcia we added it to the rotation,” Reid reported, as Hotch - the last to arrive - joined them. “Her likes and dislikes in terms of food and entertainment should be easy to address. Garcia and I have that.”

“I’ll take a look at old skills and hobbies,” Emily offers, looking over the online file. “At least on the not-art part of it.”

“I can take the artistic and more social areas,” JJ follows up.

“And I’ll be asking her questions about it all,” Hotch finished. “But that’s going to be the easy part.”

“Yeah, the tough part is ours,” Rossi nods to Morgan. “We need to play the dead card.”

“I still don’t completely understand what you’re doing,” JJ admits, glancing between the two men.

“I’m going to be meeting with Robert Leon  _ quite a lot _ to try and begin to emulate him,” Rossi explains. “And Morgan will be looking into how Gabriel Ryden acted when he was still alive.”

“The idea is that if we jog something in her memory by doing something she’ll recognize, knowing that we already remind her of people from her past, then she’ll begin to remember more.” Morgan crossed his arms. “And Reid would look into Casey Ryden if he wasn’t such a poor actor.”

“Excuse you, I’m a  _ great _ actor,” Reid objected without heat, grinning at the deadpan looks he got back.

“Sure you are, kid,” Morgan laughed. “Sure you are.”

* * *

Jane opened her apartment door, stepping into the dark foyer. She fumbled for a moment, juggling her case files until she turned on the light.

She dumped everything on the couch Aaron convinced her to buy, ducking her head to pull her satchel off -

“What -?” 

On her wobbly table was a single black lotus flower, its petals drooping with the strain of being too long out of water after being cut. An envelope stuck out under the stem, and oh-so-carefully she slid it out.

She took a deep breath and carefully tore it open.

 

_ ‘They said she was you. It was a lie. You’ll always be real to me.’ _

 

It wasn’t signed.

Swallowing roughly, she grabbed the lotus and shoved it down her sink drain, turning on the garbage disposal and turning the faucet on its strongest flow to drown the ugly plant.

Leaving the water running, she grabbed a box of matches and set the note aflame.


	22. 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She punched him in the nose.

It was a humid summer in Boston.

With Them it was always sunny and blisteringly hot, even in the dead of winter, it seemed. In Detroit, Louisville, New Orleans, Denver - they all were different. Different from There, different from each other. She loved it though, even if the sticky heat of the East Coast wasn’t exactly welcome. But she  _ chose _ Boston.  _ She _ chose.

Even if it kinda felt like Boston didn’t choose her.

“Excuse me, miss?” A man’s voice sounded from her side, and she barely turned to face him.

“What?” She half-snaps, too tired to deal with someone trying to pick her up.

“You can’t go in there,” The man - a beat cop in uniform - held out an arm before she walked right into a strand of caution tape. “This is an active crime scene.”

Jane knew that these days white dudes were being killed, and everyone at the clinic was going on about safety measures and mace - but Jane didn’t give a shit. 

Until now. Until it interfered with her  _ sleep _ .

“Since when?” She scanned the section of sidewalk. It was wet from the early morning fog, and the tape extended into the alley behind and part of the street ahead. It didn’t make sense.

“Why would the crime scene still be active?” She asked, eyeing the pool of blood and the contaminated evidence left and right. “Those stains are at least 6 hours old, and you should’ve processed everything by now. This is a busy street.”

“Because it’s part of that serial killer’s spree,” The officer smiles with a sliver of ‘official’ pride. So he  _ was  _ flirting with her, ish. “They’re keeping the scene clean until then.”

“The evidence is all contaminated by the fog,” Her eyebrows draw together, irritation rising. “And that tape is way too far out. The scene is mostly contained to the alley and part of the walkway. This is unnecessarily obstructive, especially with everyone coming back from their graveyard shifts or headed out for their early morning coffee. This is a major street for commuters.”

“It’s all to protect the people from the killer,” The officer shoots back, dropping the flirtatious edge - not liking her tone. “You would think that stopping this psycho from killing again would be more important than a cup of  _ joe _ .”

“This isn’t even the same guy!” She snapped back, fed up and done playing nice. “Look, those footprints? The bloodied ones? They’re either a men’s twelve or fourteen - and, lemme guess? Your victim was a white man? Blonde, I’d bet?”

“How did you -”

“The victims of the serial killer - who, by the way, is  _ not _ on a spree - were all brunettes. Caucasian, yes, but their photos were leaked yesterday. All brown or black hair. Now, by that time any copy cat who was planning to kill a white dude would’ve already been too far into their planning to want to let it go. So they kill Blondie anyway and stage the scene so that the connection would be assumed.”

The cop’s jaw muscles flexed with is anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” He practically hisses, aware of the attention they were gathering.

“The  _ shoe sizes _ ,” She shoots right back, throwing her hands up. “I can see them from here - no matter how  _ contaminated  _ they are. Twelve or Fourteen, men’s. All the other victims were hit in alleys, but never head on and  _ never  _ in the early mornings. If the killer killed Blondie six hours ago then he did it around one A.M. All the other bodies were  _ found _ at one A.M. - and by bartenders or transients or whoever the hell was in those alleys, all of which were  _ south _ of here by at least five blocks.”

They were getting a lot of stares at this point.

“And his shoe sizes says that he’s big, and if he’s big then that means that he’s strong or at least build enough for it not to matter. There’s no struggle - no disturbance other than the blood from your victim, so that means that he went down and he went down fast. Messily, but quickly. So either your killer suddenly lost the appeal of beating the shit out of his victims before stabbing them like 20 times, or this was a calculated kill made to look like it was another serial.”

“What does his size have to do with anything?” A nearby officer - a woman, probably a detective - asked. A serious looking older guy next to her was watching the argument intently. 

“The news said that the other victims  _ tried _ to put up a struggle,” Jane sighed, annoyed and tired and not in the mood for 20 questions. “ _ Tried _ means that they  _ couldn’t _ . They weren’t small dudes, so if they  _ tried _ to put up a fight but couldn’t do it properly then the killer -”

“Unsub,” The older guy interrupts her, but she shrugs it off.

“ _ Unsub _ was blitzing them. Probably head trauma and probably with a found object from the alleys,” Jane rolled her eyes at the expressions on the detective’s and officer’s faces. “No reason to do that if you’re a big guy unless you’re insecure - but this guy has been flaunting himself and his kills, gaining confidence: more beating before the stabbing, more stabbing when he’s done with the beating.”

“But this unsub, at this scene, was big enough that blitzing wasn’t necessary,” The older guy finished her thought. “Good work.”

“Oh, no,” Jane shakes her head, frowning. “I am not  _ working _ . I am trying to get  _ back to my apartment _ to  _ sleep _ , but these bozos tried to tell me that they had to block of  _ all of this _ .”

She gestures wildly at the whole setup, and the crowd that was staring at her.

“Can I go sleep now?” She asked acerbically, practically spitting at the cop still blocking her way.

“Sure, absolutely,” The helpful man gestures to the tape. “But first, could I ask for one more thing?”

“ _ What _ ?”

“Your name,” He smiles in a way that would almost be charming, if he wasn’t also picking her apart with his sharp gaze.

“They call me Jane.”

And she ducks under the tape, cutting across the crime scene, and belined straight for her apartment building - less than  _ fifty feet from where she was held up _ .

* * *

Gideon watched as the young woman left.

Young, probably in her early twenties. Dark clothing, threadbare, and boots falling apart with use. A bag over her shoulder, less a purse and more a craft specific kit. Based off how she spoke, something related to criminal investigation or the justice system. Unlikely to be on the prosecution side, more likely a CSI, ME, or investigator.

But she didn’t act like a cop, and she didn’t seem to recognize any of the police at the scene, nor them her. 

And she was _smart._ With good instincts.  
“Do you know her?” Gideon turned to the detective he was consulting for … McLarson. “Seen her around at all?”

“No,” The woman shook her head, eyeing the building that she had crossed to. “Was she right?”

“Spot on, and she got it quicker than expected of a stranger on the street,” Gideon took note of the address. “ _ Much _ quicker.”

* * *

When the case is resolved, he comes back. 

As luck would have it, Rossi was in town for a book signing and their paths crossed.  (Jason suspected that Dave had called in a favor to track him down, but that was beside the point.) So Gideon, returning plenty of favors involving similarly hairbrained schemes, dragged him along.

“Why are we here?” His old friend huffed as he pulled open the front door into the lobby. “When I saw you I was hoping for some nice wine and a de-stressing chat about divorce lawyers. Not some apartment hunt in the worst part of Boston.”

“I’m not hunting for an apartment, I’m hunting for a  _ person _ ,” Jason corrected him quietly as he approached the pitiful reception desk. “Hello, I’m looking for a friend of mine - only I don’t know her apartment number. Jane?”

“Jane has  _ friends _ ?” The scruffy young man snorted rudely. “602.”

“Appreciate it,” Gideon nodded to him, headed for the elevator. 

“Sorry pal, it’s out of order,” The clerk calls at their backs, stopping them dead in their tracks. “You’ll have to take the stairs.”

* * *

The moment she saw who was on the other side of the door, she slammed it shut.

And put in earbuds. Billy Joel would drown them out.

Half an hour passed, though, and the album ended. She warily went to the peephole.

“Why the hell are you still here?” Jane deadpanned when she opened the door again, staring down the man she had talked to at the crime scene a few days ago and another well dressed guy.

“I would like to speak to you,” He answered, calm in the face of her irritation. 

“And him?” She nodded to the other man, who she was sure she’d never seen before. “Why is he here?”

“Because I’m curious what kind of woman my good friend here would wait half an hour outside the door of.”

“The kind of woman that isn’t interested in talking to cops,” She snarls, going to close the door again.

The badge held up right in her line of sight stopped her.

Damn. She knew that she didn’t give a crap about cops. She didn’t know how she felt about federal agents yet.

She left the door open for them, crossing her shithole apartment. A small part of her was self conscious of the peeling paint and water stains.

“Nice place you got here,” The bearded man, the one she hadn’t seen before, commented dryly. Yeah, like she didn’t already know it was barely worth the rent, thank you.

“Your name is Jane?” The first man asked rhetorically.

“How’d you find me?” Jane idly started sorting through her pile of bills, keeping her hands busy.

“Your doorman seems to think that you don’t have many friends,” He doesn’t answer. “I would suggest some place with better security.”

“I get the security I pay for,” She dismisses, bracing her hands against her kitchenette’s tiny island. “And a place like this doesn’t exactly break the bank.”

“You’re smart,” He jumps to a different topic, studying her … like  _ They _ did. But … kinder. Interested, not expecting. “The way you broke down that scene says so. And it says you’ve got CSI training, even some hands-on experience. So why are you working and living out of the worst part of Boston?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“You should use the skills you have,” The second man snorts, and the judgment on his face is enough that she wants to smack him. “Not let yourself rot away in some seedy apartment.”

“Is there a point to all of this?” She almost-growls, fingers flexing under the counter edge as her gaze flicks between the two men. “Because there  _ really _ should be a point to all this.”

“The  _ point _ is that you  _ glanced  _ at the scene and immediately made observations that officers who had been on the force for  _ years _ couldn’t make.  _ Didn’t _ make. All while you were irritated and dead on your feet, I should add. ” He was still studying her, “And because of that we caught two killers.”

“You caught the same details,” She dismissed his reasoning. “I didn’t do anything that would’nt’ve already been done.”

“What’s your name?” He ignores her point, changing topics.

“They call me Jane,” She answered on reflex.

“Jane …?” He let his question trail.

“You have one of my names -” ( _ not even her name _ , a whisper in the back of her head corrects) “- and I have none of yours.”

“Jason Gideon.” He extended a finger to his companion, “This is David Rossi.”

“Well Jay, Davie,” She pasted a curled snarl onto her lips. “It was nice to meet you.  _ Get out _ .”

“We’re FBI agents,” Davie tries to step in, frowning at her diminutization of his name. “We -”

“Have no reason to be here because  _ I am not a criminal _ ,” She cut him off, pointing at the door. “ _ Out. _ ”

“I think that you are miserable here, even if you don’t fully realize it,” Jay bulldozes through. “And I think that you could do a lot more good with the Bureau than you could here -”  
“I’m a _doctor_ ,” She cut him off, offended. “I’m a damn good one too. I do plenty of good here.”

“You’re a doctor and you’re just sitting here, doing  _ nothing _ with your life?” Davie scoffs, spreading his arms wide at her place. “Do you even -”

“Get out or I’ll call the cops.”

“There’s not need -” Jay tries to calm them down.

“You’re just  _ wasting away _ -” Davie gets in her face, eyes alight.

She punched him in the nose.

“I said:  _ get out _ .”

They finally left.

* * *

The next morning, as she left for her shift, she found a business card placed deliberately outside her door.

She didn’t know why, but she stuck it in her satchel.

* * *

Months later, she was on the steps of the Boston Public Library and - well ...

She was fingering the same business card between her fingers as they went numb in the late autumn air. Her breath fogged and crystallized in the light of the streetlamp. 

She pulled out her phone. She couldn’t dial.

She’d looked them up. Just … out of curiosity. Profilier. Good, really good. Founding members of the modern Behavioral Analysis Unit.

The moon went behind a cloud. The temperature dropped even further.

She punched in the number. Didn’t call.  _ Couldn’t call _ .

What was she afraid of?

She didn’t know if she liked -

No. She knew. 

She wanted to  _ matter _ . Because to Them she didn’t mean a thing.

She hit dial. Pressed the phone to her ear, barely feeling it with how numb they’d gone.

“Jason Gideon,” He answered, and her voice went dry.

“Hi,” She finally got out, swallowing dryly - the cold stinging her throat. “I’m - well, I’m -”

“I’m sorry, I’m on a plane at the moment,” He apologized - Gideon - and she had a second to gather herself. “I can’t hear you very well.”

“I’m Jane,” She finally goes with. Easy. Straightforward. Simple.

“Jane …?” He repeats, before he seems to get it. “Oh. Jane Doe.”

Her breath caught. She screwed her eyes shut, digging her palm into her eye. 

“Hart,” She corrects him, drawing in a shaky breath. She forced herself to sit up, push it all back. “Dr. Jane Hart. That job offer still up?”

“Yes,” He confirms, and she thought he might be smiling. “Are you interested?”

Deep breath.

“Where do I sign?”

* * *

Jane looked up through the rain at the building in front of her, crumpling the piece of paper with the address in her hand.

Fuck her. She was gonna hate this.

She pushed through the doors, eyeing the hustle and bustle of the lobby. She could stay and check in … 

Well, she didn’t know if she liked to follow government protocol, yet. Best find that out sooner rather than later, with this job on the table.

(Plus she  _ really _ wanted to see if she could get past their security. She had learned last month that she liked sneaking around.)

She adjusts her posture, cool casual confidence replacing her earlier annoyance as she adjusted her bag and walked straight through. Deadpan expression and deliberate, clear purpose will get you in  _ anywhere _ \- she learned that even when she was There.

For a federal building, their security kinda  _ sucked _ .

She makes it to the elevator, then drops the posture. If anyone who cared saw her as out of place this far into the building then they would assume that she was meant to be there. Ah, the wonders of the human mind. People missed stupid shit like that because they trust each other.

Cute.

The directory on the elevator’s panel said that the BAU was on 6, meaning that she was most likely to find Gideon there. Find Gideon, and she never has to go back to Boston or …  _ There _ … ever again. Game plan.

She can do this. Just … get there. Gideon will do the rest, he said he would.

The elevator dings open on two, and a well built man with perfectly coiffed blonde hair steps in. He’s taller than her (everyone is taller than her) and he sends her a look that is half questioning and half assessing.

“You also headed to six?” The man asks her after he goes to press the button and sees it lit. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

His smile is half flirtatious, but Jane knows that if he’s headed to six then he knows how to spot the edge of the hell she’s gone through poking out behind her mask. 

Or ... maybe he doesn’t, she considers as he continued to chatter inanely. 

Somehow that’s worse.

“You wouldn’t’ve,” She replies shortly, and steps out before him when the elevator dings open.

She gives a quick scan of the half-open area just down the hall; she sees a number of desks in the middle of the room and a handful of offices along the elevated walkway. Blondie walks past her to a desk, where he’s joined by an arrogant looking redhead with a loosened tie and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. He practically  _ screamed _ ‘arrogant dickhead’.

Just what she needed.

The light in the office labeled ‘SSA Jason Gideon’ is out, and the door locked when she checks, but there’s an empty desk with an equally empty chair that she decides to kip out at in the main bullpen. She has some paperwork for her shoebox of an apartment to finish up anyway.

She gets through maybe a page and a half of legal bullshit before she gets interrupted by Carrot-Douche and his Goldilocks friend.

“Hey there, lovely,” Red swaggers up to her. “What might your name be?”

“They call me Jane,” She goes with, still after all of these months forgetting in that one split second her new name. Hart,  _ Hart _ . 

She missed being Doe. Jane Doe didn’t sound like some trashy romance novel heroine, like  _ Hart _ did.

(God did she hate Them.)

“- if you need anything,” Carrot-Douche is still speaking, and she blinks herself out of her thoughts to level a deadpan look at him.

“I heard none of that,” She tells him flatly, turning back to her papers.

“No need to be  _ rude _ ,” Carrot-Douche changes his tune, his attitude taking a complete 180. “You shouldn’t even be working at this desk, anyway. It’s reserved for the new doctor that we’re hiring for Hotchner’s team.”

Which made it sound as if he wasn’t on said team. Excellent.

She continues to ignore him.

“How’d you even get in here?” Carrot-Douche tries another angle. “You’re soaking wet and dripping water everywhere - and your boots are  _ filthy _ . What, did you just come off the  _ street? _ ”

Jane sees red. There’s nothing  _ wrong _ with living on the street. She lived better on the street for nearly a  _ year _ than she did during all of her time with  _ Them  _ and -

“Back.  _ Off _ .” She hissed, suddenly in his face even though he has nearly a foot on her. “You arrogant, entitled, son of a -”

“That’s _ enough _ .”

Jane recognizes the voice, standing her ground all the same as Carrot-Douche stumbles away from her. She smirks a satisfied twitch of her lips at him, then turns to face her new maybe-boss.

“Gideon,” Jane greets him flatly. “If I have to work with Carrot-Douche over here, I’m quitting before you can even hire me.”

Carrot-Douche and his friend both make sounds that are a mix between offended (Carrot) and amused (Blondie). Then they process the rest of what she’s said and are and suddenly very, very worried. 

Guess they connected the dots.

“Neither Agents Cole nor Goldrosen are on my team, no,” Gideon raised his eyebrows at her. “But name calling is certainly uncalled for.”

“So is harassment,  _ sir _ ,” She bites back, anger remounting. “And if FBI agents don’t know how to leave someone alone then  _ why should I work here _ ?”

“You should meet our Unit Chief,” Gideon changes the subject instead of answering her question.

He actually grasps her elbow to steer her into an upper office, and she pushed back her flinch at his touch - but she sees him notice the suppressed action. Luckily he doesn’t comment.

Once inside she ignores the startled inhabitant long enough to throw a last dirty look at Carrot-Douche - before Gideon deliberately shut the door, cutting off her line of glare. She turns to stare him down instead.

“Gideon, who is this?” The agent behind the desk breaks the silence after a long moment, and Gideon looks away first.

“This is Dr. Jane Hart, the woman I told you about,” Gideon introduces as she begins to investigate the office idly. “Dr. Hart, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief.”

“Nice to meet you,” She glances his way, not accepting his extended hand. Calm down.  _ Calm down.  _ Don’t flip out even further on your first day. Get out of Boston, that’s your goal.

Agent Hotchner eventually retracts his arm, his face smoothed over. She catches him exchanging meaningful looks with Gideon.

“So is this a job interview or an orientation day?” Jane finally asks, turning away from the mediocre view from the window. Hotchner was wearing a silver tie.

“A little bit of both,” Hotchner answers with a tilt of his head. “You already have the job, but what exactly that job is defined as has yet to be determined, as a position like the one we are proposing has never existed before. Additionally, your file is very slim - we need to discuss what you are most qualified for.”

“I’m a practicing and licensed medical doctor, forensic pathologist, and medical examiner,” Jane provides as she studies the slight sheen of the ID clipped to his suit jacket. “I take care of you, the team, the victims, and the dead bodies.”

Agent Hotchner is again silent, and the itch is there. The  _ itch _ she gets whenever someone is picking her apart (profiling her - now that she’s met Gideon and has a word for it).  _ They  _ gave her that itch, all the time. But apparently, for the most part, Agent Hotchner is more subtle.

The three of them go through the motions. She signs some forms. She gradually calms down, and Gideon pulls up a chair.

“I have a proposition for you,” Agent Hotchner spoke after the signatures were done. “I’ll even make it official with paperwork.”

Jane tilted her head, seeing Gideon straighten up - just slightly. Not planned, then.

“I know that where you come from was hell,” Hotchner begins, and she has to squash down the desire to bolt to the door. “That you were there and it hurt you, and it hurt you badly.”

“That is none of your business,” Jane fights to keep her voice level. She has experience.

“It is if you work with us,” Gideon tilts an eyebrow and her, and she wants to slap it off his face.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Hotchner brings them back on topic. “You care about people.”

He paused, and she bristled at the sliver of perceived accusation. With a glower she gave a short, sharp nod.

“Then I’ll make you a deal,” He repeated. “If you join this team, if you  _ accept our help _ , then I’ll guarantee that there will never be a time that we won’t accept yours.’”

A pause. He doesn’t elaborate.

“How?” She finally broke the silence.

“I’ll give you the authority to pull anyone from the field on medical grounds - including Gideon and me,” Hotchner’s lips turn up. “You’ll have access to everyone’s complete medical files and information. You’ll have final say on anything regarding an agent or victims health.”

Jane swallowed. It was tempting.

And she  _ really _ didn’t want to go back to Boston.

“Deal.”

She turned to face him fully, and in the process caught sight of Carrot-Douche and Goldilocks through the window.

“But I want my own desk - and as far away from  _ them _ as I can get.”


	23. 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You always told me to either do something or shove it in a storage closet somewhere,” He sighed, scrubbing his hands across his face. “I should’ve listened.”
> 
> “Oh come on, Rin,” She scoffed, stepping into his hotel room. “You never listen to me.”

The sun was going down.

She had wandered around for a couple hours, paying no attention to the people passing her on the street. Instead her eyes were on the curves and sharp corners of the city, the pretty and the old and the ugly and the new. Eventually her feet took her to the older neighborhoods, passing by brownstones and vine covered buildings that screamed of old colonial pride.

When the sun began to touch the horizon, she found herself at the foot of the stairs that she remembered so vividly. Remembered that phone call so vividly.

Jane made her way up slowly, sitting herself down on the very step she made that call on, all those years ago.

Six years. Yesterday, an eon ago.

She took in the hustle and bustle of people, everyone headed somewhere for some reason. She felt small again, like she did all those years ago. 

The sun went down. 

Then the melancholy is shattered by the sound of her phone going off.

“Dr. Hart,” Jane answered automatically, not bothering to check caller ID. Only Aaron would be calling her, considering it was technically her day off.

“I’ve finished up with Shaunessy,” Hotch spoke grimmly through the phone, the sound of him clambering into his car filtering through the speakers. “You still coming back with me?”

“Where should I meet you?” Jane asked rather than answer. Aaron grunted on the other side, thinking.

“Shaunessy was on the south side, right?” Jane supplied for him, recognizing when his mind was a thousand miles away. “I’m too far to get there easily, and I’m hungry. Meet me halfway.”

* * *

“So did you come here often, when you were in Boston?” Hotch finally asks Jane halfway through their meal, each of them previously too focused on their seafood and the work-related shit going on in their heads to engage in more than just smalltalk.   
“No, too high out of my price range,” Jane smiled smally, spearing a shrimp on her fork. “But I did used to see this place when I left work - always wanted to go in, never could.”

“Out of your price range?” He raised his eyebrow at her, sitting back slightly to scan the other diners. “You worked here as a  _ doctor _ , Jane.”

“I lived …  frugally,” Jane brushed off evasively, shrinking slightly under his gaze. “Some debts to Them I didn’t want to leave unpaid.”

Aaron tried to keep the sympathy off his face. And the anger. It …  _ might’ve _ worked.

She cleared her throat noisily then, taking a swig from her water. “So, Shaunessy. Why did he want to see you? You owe him money?”

Hotch sharply jerked his chin in a negative, his mood abruptly dropping even further; he took a second to find the words.

“Shaunessy made a deal ten years ago,” He confessed lowly, keeping other tables from hearing in the crowded restaurant. “To stop hunting the Reaper so long as the Reaper stopped killing. The contract expires the same time that Detective Shaunessy does.”

“The Reaper …” Jane mused, sitting back to recall where she’d heard the name before. “That was your first case as lead, wasn’t it? You still work on that profile, sometimes.”

Hotch nodded, resuming eating.

“You know …” Jane began to muse. “I was called in as a second, maybe third, opinion on some injuries when I was last in Boston. Must’ve been, oh, six, seven years ago? A man who had been stabbed something like 46 times, Foyet?”

“George Foyet was the only surviving victim,” Hotch nodded, eyebrows raised. “Quite a coincidence. Why were you consulting on his case?”

“The wounds, though healed, were still debilitating,” Jane quirked a lip wryly. “Even though Foyet was on a host of drugs for his condition, he collapsed on the street one day and had to be taken into a clinic. Mine just happened to be the closest.”

“So you got roped in once they realized that it was out of their realm,” Hotch smiled, ever amused by people inevitably turning to Jane to solve their problems. “At least you’re familiar with the case then?”

“The bare bones, only what Foyet told me,” Jane shrugged. “But there wasn’t much I could do other than recommend that he get some surgery to reduce the internal scarring. I don’t know if he took up the offer, I left Boston maybe a week later.”

“This was  _ right before _ you joined the BAU?” Hotch asked, surprised. “That is some coincidence.”

“Yeah,” Jane furrowed her brow. “It is, isn’t it …”

* * *

Jane barged into his office after Garcia left, leaving him with the personal ad highlighted in mocking yellow.

“You gonna talk about this like a big boy, or am I going to have to get LeFay in here to hold you down?”

“Hold me down while you do what?” Hotch raised his eyebrows, tilting his head at Jane as he carefully placed the printout in the folder on his desk. “Interrogate me?”

“How about ‘tickle you until you crack’?” Jane offered dryly, snatching up the file off his desk before he could stop her. “Like an egg.”

“An  _ egg?” _

“Oh shut up, Rin,” The doctor rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I do, I do,” Hotch admitted, crossing to meet her halfway and offer his wrist. He felt grounded by the routine, as if the shitshow of the Reaper deal hadn’t just turned everything upside down. Even though it very much had.

“This is proof,” Jane flicked through one-handedly, looking over the sketch of a profile he’d compiled over the years. “The contract was real.”

“Yes.”

Jane studied him. She took in, no doubt, the bags under his eyes and the skew of his tie and the smell of coffee on his breath; he, in turn, took in the spiked red choker that Garcia had shoved her way and the smudge of ink from her fountain pens across the side of her jaw.

“Don’t do this alone,” She cautioned, their eyes locking. “You have a team for a reason.”

And she gave his wrist one last squeeze before walking out the door, dropping the file off on his spare chair on her way out.

* * *

“Man, I can _ not  _ be the only one who sees the obvious tension between those two,” Morgan groans, eyes on the retreating figure of the Doc as she returned to her office from Hotch’s. 

“Obvious  _ sexual _ tension,” Garcia murmurs into her coffee cup, and Emily reaches over to smack her for it. “ _ What? _ You can see it. I can see it. He’s a divorced man, and she’s hot and mysterious and they’ve been friends for, like, ever.”

“That doesn’t mean that there’s … _that_ ,” Reid tries to comment, clearly uncomfortable. “And Jane has never been in a relationship, she said so.”  
“ _When?_ ” Morgan’s attention is suddenly on Reid. “When did she say that?”

“Never Have I Ever,” JJ confirmed. “But, technically, she said she had no  _ memory _ of ever being in a relationship.”

“Umm, no, sweetcheeks,” Garcia laughed, eyebrows dancing. “She said that she had no memory of ever  _ kissing _ a  _ man _ .”

“So … lesbian?” Emily offered bluntly, eyes cast around the bullpen for eavesdroppers. “Or terminally single.”

“I’d say bisexual,” Rossi offered from  _ right behind _ Emily, making her jump. “But I think Jane’s dating has been far and few between. And also not relevant. Can we get back to work now?”

* * *

Jane trailed behind Hotch as he approached O’Mara, face set grimmly as the cop finished trying to placate the reporter-sharks sniffing for blood. 

“I worked the reaper case for 18 months,” The harried Boston man was saying. “If there's any proof that this horrible crime is anything more than a copycat, I'll be the first one to let you know.”

Hotch came to a stop, the contract carefully held between his fingers as he shook O’Mara’s hand, exchanging the usual greetings - crime scene edition.

“It's not a copycat, Mike,” Hotch corrected the detective lowly, keeping his voice from carrying. “I wish it were, but it isn't.”

“Yeah, no offense, you don't know that - and I didn't invite you in.”

“Shaunessy did,” Is all Hotch said as he passed over the bagged contract.

O’Mara looked like he was trying  _ very hard _ not to swear up a storm.

“Want to invite us in?” Hotch offered, as if it wasn’t a forgone conclusion.

The cop could only nod, and Jane felt his eyes on her as she nodded at JJ and Reid to join them.

“You, you’re that doctor, aren’t you?” O’Mara finally seemed to place her. “McLarson told me about you. You helped with those alley murders and then got snapped up by the feds before we could snage you for ourselves.”

“I am.”

“How you got recruited?” Hotch turned to her, a flicker of surprise on his face. “How well known was this?”

“At least the whole force knew, or at least heard the story,” O’Mara chuckled, a tinge of humor surfacing. “From there, anyone with too close of an ear to the pavement probably knew. Wasn’t exactly pedestrian, what you did, Dr. Hart.”

“And yet, I was merely a pedestrian at the time,” Jane countered dryly as she dug out a pair of gloves from her satchel, switching out for the more practical when dealing with blood. “Let’s see what we got.”

* * *

When JJ answered her phone during the briefing on Foyet, Jane felt something sink in her gut. 

“Hotch, there’s a reporter outside insisting on speaking with you - and with Jane,”  JJ passed along, clearly wary. “Roy Colson. Says he knows you.”

Jane exchanged a glance with Hotch, which from him basically read _ ‘You’re coming. You got drafted. Congrats.’  _  in a tone as dry as the Sahara, yet somehow still completely silent.

Jane sighed, gathering her files and adjusting her satchel as she followed after him.

* * *

“Roy,” Hotch greeted the reporter, shaking his hand. “And you know of Dr. Jane Hart.”

“Call me Jane,” Is all Jane can summon to be cordial as she reluctantly took the writer’s hand - a stranger to her. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’ve heard of you, is all,” Roy smiled at Jane, eyes running over her with a reporter’s eye. “So if it’s just a copycat, what are you two doing here?”

“Helping the police catch him,” Hotch replied without inflection.

“Is that your story?” Roy shook his head, glancing between the two of them. “Come on, I wrote the book on this guy. I even sent you a signed copy - I assume you got it.”

“Officially, we have no reason to think that he's anything but a copycat.” Hotch repeated, feeling rather than seeing Jane shift behind him. She wasn’t enjoying the monotone he adapted - ironically enough, she never did enjoy when he slipped a mask over his emotions.

“Well, how about unofficially?” The writer came back again. “If this was a copycat, would you have left your people behind to start at the crime scene, all except for her?” He nodded at Jane. “She’s established that she can look at a crime scene with one glance and know whether or not it’s a copycat - so why did she barely look at the scene until you and O’Mara stopped having your chat?”

“What's more important to you, Roy?” Hotch countered levelly as he felt his stomach drop. “Getting the story or getting the killer?”

“I spent time with the families,” The other man gathered himself. “I told the victims' stories. Now, you would know that if you read my book.”

“It was a good book, Mr. Colson,” Jane spoke up as he began to walk away, stopping him in his tracks. “Hotch keeps it on a shelf in his office, in the section that  _ isn’t  _ just for show.”

“You treated the victims with respect and you treated us fairly,” Hotch affirmed, a little miffed that Jane was tattling on him like that.

“Every dime I made went to the families”

“I know,” Hotch nodded, just once. “That’s why I came down. The minute I have something to say, I’ll call you.”

They shook hands, and Colson nodded at Jane in farewell.

“If it’s him, it won’t be long,” He called out to them as they stepped into the building.

Once they were out of earshot, Jane shifted closer to Hotch, their arms brushing as they walked.

“Why did he even want to see me?” Jane asked, tone dry. “He didn’t even want to talk to me.”

“He wanted to  _ see _ you, and use you to make a point,” Hotch explained, a bad feeling building in his gut. “Jane, I don’t like how much the people in this city seem to know about you.”

“Nor do I,” Jane murmurs, turning back to look at the doors. “Nor do I.”

* * *

“Garcia can't find George Foyet,” Morgan reported to Hotch grimmly, and he was taken aback.

“I’ve got nothing, sir,” Garcia affirmed apologetically. 

“What do you mean?” 

“He’s gone. I mean, he's completely off the grid,” Their technical analyst expanded, distressed. “And he's gone.”

“How is that possible?” Hotch asked, crossing his arms.

“Nine months after he got out of the hospital, he, uh, quit his job, sold his car, closed his bank accounts,” Garcia rattled off Foyet’s disappearance. “Canceled his credit cards, cell phone, apartment,  _ everything _ . He has no paper, thus he has no trail - and I can't find him cuz he's gone.”

“You think it's intentional?” Hotch asked.

“It's more than that,” Garcia replied. 

“But, wait,” Hotch suddenly remembered. “Jane treated Foyet, before she joined the team - maybe a week or two before she left Boston. Is there any record of that?”

“Oh -” Garcia suddenly exclaimed. “Oh that’s clever. Janey treated a Jorge Foyet - with a ‘j’ - nine days before she left Boston. But no address or phone number attached.”

The sound of more clicks on the other end of the line.

“Deleting yourself like this, it’s impressive,” Garcia acquiesced. “And that he left even part of his real name at all is … sloppy.”

Hotch glanced out the open door behind him, where Jane was talking to O’Mara.   
“Yeah, it is …”

* * *

“How did Colson find this guy?” Rossi asked, eyes on the relatively quiet street ahead of them.

“He interviewed Foyet extensively for his book,” Hotch explained. “They kept in touch.”

“So you used the writer to track down Foyet,” Jane clarified. “Can’t tell if that’s a very good friend or a very bad one.”

“They're friends?” Rossi asked, vaguely surprised.

“Sort of,” Hotch shrugged a shoulder. “But Foyet wouldn't give him his phone number. He gave him one of his aliases, though.”

“That’s him,” Jane leaned up from the backseat, pointing over Hotch’s shoulder. “Same ugly coat I last saw him in.”

They clambered out of the car.

* * *

Hotch and Rossi were both headed for the door, ready to leave after Foyet refused their protection, but Jane wasn’t quite ready yet.

The sound of Foyet’s coughing sounded … forced, which put her on edge. But it was probably due to stress, and there was still a layer of true pain under it that Jane couldn’t ignore. Not as a doctor.

“You two go ahead,” She called out lowly through the foyer of the impersonal house. “I’ll call myself a cab.”

“Jane …” Hotch frowned at her, not liking the thought of her alone when there was a killer on the loose.

“We’ll send you a car?” Rossi cut over whatever protest Aaron was going to offer up.

“Nah, this is my old turf,” Jane gave a brief smile. “I’ll make it back on my own.”

And with one last, long glance at her they walked out the door.

“Why did you stay?” Foyet spoke from behind her, and Jane had to force herself to turn around slowly. Something about Foyet … felt like Liberty Ranch, and Benjamin Cyrus, all over again.

_ He’s just another patient. _

“I’ll leave if you’d like me,” Jane assured him quietly. “But I saw that you didn’t leave a trail through hospital records, which means that you either didn’t go to seek medical help, or you used aliases repeatedly - either way, no medical professional focused solely on your treatment, who had your entire history, has been able to help you.”

“So you’re saying you will?” Foyet smiled, gesturing to his couch. “I … thank you.”

“I’m guessing the excuse of being late for work was more to get us out the door, huh?” Jane sat, pulling out her file on him. He shrugged sheepishly. “That’s fine, I won’t judge. Now I can give you a full physical, or we can merely talk this over, or something in between. What would you be most comfortable with?”

“Umm,” Foyet ran a hand over the back of his neck. “The full physical?”

“Okay then, Mr. Foyet,” Jane did her best to smile genuinely, pushing back her unease - silently reciting her Oath. “Let’s see what I can do for you.”

* * *

“This isn’t healthy and you know it.’  
Aaron tore his gaze away from the pictures scattered across his bed, looking up at his returned coworker.  Jane was lurking in his doorway, a frown fixed on her face. 

“You always told me to either do something or shove it in a storage closet somewhere,” He sighed, scrubbing his hands across his face. “I should’ve listened.”

“Oh come on, Rin,” She scoffed, stepping into his hotel room. “You never listen to me.”

“How was Foyet?” He changed topics. “Any different than from six years ago?”

“He didn’t get the surgery, like I suggested,” Jane sighed, flopping down on his bed. “But he never went to any doctor after that, so that’s most likely it. I updated his prescriptions, advised him on how to treat some of his nastier scar tissue, and left when he began to get antsy.”

Hotch was about to reply when the room’s phone went off.

* * *

“What did he take?” Jane heard Rossi ask, and was about to point out the woman’s empty ears when Hotch cut her off.

“Does it matter?”

Jane watched as first Aaron got off the bus, then Rossi followed him.

That damn phone call. Hotch was right, not to take the deal that the Reaper offered … but it must’ve felt a little like how Jane did tied to that chair in Hankel’s shed. Shitty and guilty, as if even with their hands tied they could’ve  _ stopped this _ .

Jane follows slowly, and waits until Rossi calms Hotch down before adding her two cents.

“If you had taken that deal,” She piped up, hands jammed into her pockets, fingers freezing in her maroon gloves. “Then you would’ve only fed his fantasy. His narcissism. And even so, getting you the second time round - even if it was a jump from cop to fed - wouldn't've satisfied him for long. It was only a matter of time.”

Hotch nodded, and they began to exit the alley.

“And if you’d taken the deal, I would’ve killed you dead,” Jane checked his shoulder, burying a smile at Rossi’s laugh.

* * *

Jane made a beeline straight for Morgan when she arrived on-scene.

“Let me take over,” She ordered the EMT, already pulling out her gloves.

“Who -” The man rounded on her, before taking her in fully. “You Dr. Hart?”

“Yes, I’m Hart,” Jane snapped at him, and Morgan couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at her crabbiness. “And that’s my charge, so either step away -”

“Hey,  _ hey _ ,” Morgan cut in, wary she was about to shove a scalpel into someone’s neck. “It’s cool, man. Let her take over.”

The EMT stepped back, allowing Jane to seamlessly take over removing bits of window from his shoulder, and Derek watched the EMT watch Jane with something close to amazement. Or starstruck. 

But the relief was there, that Jane was with him - taking care of him. Jane knew all of Morgan’s health issues in and out, and as she began to shift glass out from under skin it was night and day to the stranger’s touch.

“I should’ve been there,” He heard Jane mutter as she dropped another piece of glass into a pan. “Should’ve had your back.”

“You weren’t there because you’re not ready yet,” Morgan shook his head, before stopping at the twinge it sent down his shoulder. “And you would’ve ended up just like O’Mara.”

“Or maybe the both of you would’ve been fine if I had just  _ been there _ ,” She growled. “All this training you’ve been putting me through, and I still get told to stay back while the rest of you storm the place.”

“Jane -”

“ _ JJ  _ went,” She pressed, dropping yet another piece of glass. “And she’s a Media Liaison!”

“ _ JJ _ went through the Academy,” Morgan placated her, hissing at the pinch of the numbing needle at his shoulder. “You got recruited. That doesn’t make you any less capable, only less experienced. You’ll get there.”

“Not fast enough,” Jane shook her head, voice tight. “Next time: I’m coming.”

Morgan knew it would do no good to argue.

* * *

“Why is he so focused on Foyet?” Hotch asked the team. “What’s so special about him?”

“He was his only surviving victim, the only one he couldn’t defeat,” JJ offered.

“But he took the body,” Jane couldn’t get over it. “He’s never done that before. He leaves things, he doesn’t take them.”

“What are you saying?” Rossi asked, shifting to face her.

“Well, I saw Foyet, earlier today,” Jane started to articulate, gathering her thoughts. “The whole time when I was there, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d met someone like him before.” She glanced at Emily and Reid. “Foyet felt just like Benjamin Cyrus.”

“The Cult leader?” Morgan clarified, receiving a handful of nods back. “Why?”

“He had … so many layers to him,” Jane confessed, eyes on the pictures in front of them. “There’s just something - something not clicking.”

“What about the girlfriend, Amanda Bertrand?” JJ asked, shifting gears. “What do we know about her?”

“19, a Freshman, she came here from Michigan to go to school,” Emily supplied. “Foyet was a teacher’s assistant in one of Amanda’s courses.”

“Hebephile,” Jane immediately chimed in, rapidfire connecting the dots. “Michigan was where Shaunessy was to post the personal ad.”

“He's a 28-year-old teacher's assistant in freshman classes,” Hotch clenched his jaw as he dialed to call Garcia.

“That gives him plenty of access to young girls,” Rossi reiterated grimmly.

Jane cursed herself, she should’ve  _ seen it. _

* * *

“You want the fame that's gonna come from the media,” Hotch told the Foyet - The Boston Reaper - as Jane and the rest of the team entered the room and leveled their aim at him. “It's gonna be like Bundy.”

“I'm gonna be bigger than Bundy,” Foyet insisted - gun still aimed at Roy’s head.

“Well, you can't enjoy it if you're dead,” Hotch stated, aim still true as Jane sidled up beside him.

“If you know me so well, how come somebody had to die to bring you here?” Foyet taunted, arrogance in his tone.

“That's your choice, not mine,” Hotch bared down on him. “You're the serial killer.”

“And she’s the doctor who treated the serial killer,” Foyet grinned - sneered - at Jane. “Do you regret helping me, Dr. Hart?”

“It wasn’t a coincidence, was it?” Jane realized, gun aimed right at his heart. “You walking into my clinic. Who told you I was joining the BAU, Roy?”

“Couldn’t resist,” He bared his teeth at her, not answering. “Knowing the people who would be hunting me down, that  _ their doctor _ would have treated me.”

“No,” Jane bared her teeth right back. “I don’t regret treating you.”

And with that The Boston Reaper put his hands up, and Morgan practically tackled him to the ground.

* * *

“They didn't find your credentials at any of the residences,” Jane overheard Hotch telling Morgan on the plane. They continued to speak lowly, going over the details of the blood and how Foyet was planning to fake his death. All Jane could pay attention to was the way that Morgan kept staring at that damn bullet.

“Morgan, you're gonna have to find a way to let it go,” Hotch said, voicing her concerns from across the jet. She got up.

“Could you?”

“I’d have to.”

Jane sat next to Morgan, shoving him towards the wall of the plane. She reached over and plucked the bullet from his unresisting grip.

“This bullet,” Jane studied it. The blue tip, the heft. “I didn’t have to dig it out of you. I didn’t have to bury you with it still lodged in your rib cage. I didn’t even have to scold you for getting it fired in your general direction.”

Morgan just kept staring at the bullet.

“He didn’t kill you,” Jane emphasized, closing her fist around the bullet. “Didn’t injure you, not anything you couldn’t handle. And now, because he was an arrogant ass, you get to save a lot of lives.”

She reached over, fingers curled over Derek’s hand until it opened and she dropped it into his palm.

“That bullet means that you could’ve died, but you didn’t. And it also means that now you get to make sure that a bullet just like that doesn’t end up in someone else. Take the win.”

Derek’s fingers curled around the ammo, and with a clenched jaw he nodded.

“ _ Do  _ you regret it?” Reid asked from across the plane, and Jane turned to see that he was talking to her.

“Regret what?” Jane asked, having a good idea already.

“Treating Foyet,” Rossi supplied for the genius, and the whole jet was listening. “When he was a killer.”

“I only regret that I couldn’t treat him better,” Jane answered honestly, after a moment.

“Even though he could’ve  _ killed me _ ?” Morgan growled, angry.

“Especially,” Jane leveled her gaze at Derek, meeting his anger head on. “I took an Oath, Derek. To value life above all else, even his.”

The jet went silent, and Jane stood to move - but Derek grabbed her hand and pulled her back down, gripping her hand in mutual support.

* * *

“Jane, are you missing anything?” 

Hotch stood in her office doorway, and Jane had to blink sleep out of her eyes at the question. 

“Missing …” Her brain caught up. “No? Not that I know of.”

“Can you check to see if your satchel has everything?” Aaron pressed on, and Jane reached for her bag before she processed why Hotch would be asking.

“My …” She double checked. “My stethoscope is gone. How did I not notice that?”

“It was found with the maps of the facility that Foyet escaped from,” Hotch passed her a photo of her instrument weighing down a pile of papers. “He’s mocking us.”

“Yeah,” Jane sighed, scrubbing at her face. “And he’s mocking  _ me _ .”


	24. 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fought, Foyet had no one to defend but Hotch did. Foyet got the upper hand.
> 
> Hotch got a knife to the gut.

The call went to voicemail after ringing out.

“Hey, Aaron,” Jane started her message as she entered her apartment, knowing that her Unit Chief was still at the office. “My offer still stands. That apartment of yours is barely lived in, and God knows you kip out on my couch half the time these days. Just … stop by, if you want. I don’t think any of us want to spend the night in an empty apartment, not after that damn farm.”

She sighed as she ended the call, scrubbing a hand across her face. Her satchel ended up on her couch, followed by her jacket and overshirt - and she was just beginning to remove her boots when -

“Don’t move.”

* * *

“Where’s Hotch?” Emily asked suddenly, standing over the cooled body of a hispanic man. “And Jane, for that matter.”

“He’s not answering his cell, neither of them are,” JJ commented offhandedly. “I assume they’re on vibrate. They’ll get my messages as soon as they wake up.”

“What’s the money they’re together?” Morgan muttered lowly to Emily, shooting an eyebrow waggle and grin at the team. “That would  _ distract  _ ‘em.”

“Nope,” Rossi dismissed. “Not thinking about that.” 

Emily smothered her laughs, mindful of the crime scene around them.

“Try them again,” Rossi ordered, sobering. “They can meet us at Barton’s house.”

* * *

“This guy’s a trauma surgeon working a major metropolitan area,” Penelope pointed out to her Boy Wonder over the call, pulling up files left and right. “We are talking thousands of surgeries.”

“Confine it to the last six months.”

“That’s still hundreds,” She groused. Finding one dead stressor out of hundreds …

“I know,” Reid pushed forward. 

“Ok, do you want biographical information or full medical charts?” She offered him. “I can get you and Janey copies lickity-split!”

“Have you heard from Jane?” Reid asked, clearly surprised for some reason. “Or Hotch?”

“... They’re not with you?” She felt her stomach drop, thinking back to the last time she’d seen either of them. They had both looked too worn around the edges for her liking.

“They’re probably on their way,” Her baby genius tried to brush it off, dismiss her worry - but even as Reid ended the call she had a bad feeling about it.

* * *

“Jeffery is leaving school in five hours. There’s no way we can get through all these patients in this time.”

Emily exchanged glances with Reid, silently trying to figure out what to say to Dr. Barton.  

“Well, we’ve narrowed it down already -” Emily tries to point out their progress. 

“And we still have a hundred left!” Dr. Barton exclaimed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be callus, but when you work in the ER you don’t remember names: you operate and you move on.”

_ ‘We need Jane.’ _

Doctors were her category, not theirs - no matter how many books Reid read.

“He’s right. There are too many files here for us to profile in such a short period of time,” Emily sighs, standing and gathering herself. “I can get to Hotch’s and back here in half an hour. Chances are Jane crashed at his place anyway.”

Reid’s face twitched subtly at the hidden lie. Both of them knew that Hotch would know where Jane was, yes, but the two of them were both too secretive for the team to know  _ for sure  _ whose place they crashed at (and it took months of questionably-moral intra-team profiling to figure out that they crashed together at all). But telling the father of a threatened child how many stops she would be making would only work against them.

“Who’s that? Who are they?” Dr. Barton asked, confused and worried.

“Our supervisor and our medical examiner,” Reid explained briefly. “We weren’t supposed to work today, and we’re having trouble getting ahold of them.”

“We need more eyes,” Emily justified, adjusting a cufflink before walking out the door.

And if she walked a little faster, worry fueling her stride … well, no one was there to see it.

* * *

Emily pulled up to Hotch’s apartment building first - her priority, she decided.

As much help as Jane would be with the charts, Hotch was still the profiler and still their supervisor. They needed speed and a new pair of eyes, and Hotch would be it.

(And if there was that little nosy part of her, the part that wondered if she would find Jane curled up on Hotch’s couch or asleep … somewhere else - well, Emily couldn’t be blamed for being human.)

“Hotch?” She called as she knocked at his door. “It’s me, Emily.”

No answer.

She rang his phone, and she could hear it inside the apartment.

_ And the door was unlocked. _

Her stomach dropped.

Emily pulled her gun, pushing open the door in one practiced motion - immediately cataloging what she saw as she swept the flat.

Hotch’s keys on the side table, his briefcase on the couch. A bullet hole through the wall, clean through. Two blood stains on the ground, one larger, the other smaller - four feet apart. A broken glass, a discarded cell phone, and Hotch’s sidearm in its holster on the table. 

And  _ no one else there _ .

* * *

“Hey,” Reid answered his phone, not expecting Emily to call.

“Reid, something happened to Hotch.”

“What?” He can’t compute that. “What - what are you talking about?”

But Dr. Barton is talking and Reid’s mind is racing a thousand miles an hour to comfort a concerned parent while still finding out what the  _ hell _ was going on from Emily - her explanation coming through rapidfire, like a flood.

Barton stormed out, Emily was still talking.

“There’s a huge hole in the wall, probably a .44, but there’s no blood or tissue spray around it,” Emily was saying, finishing her rushed summary.

“Any idea how he got out?” He asks, mind racing.

“If he was shot, there are no drag marks - but a body could have been wrapped in something.”

“Wait -” Reid ran back through everything Emily had said, recalling what he heard even as Dr. Barton was talking to him. “You said two blood stains.”

“Yes, one larger, one smaller.”

“Emily,” Reid forced his voice out through his tightening throat.  _ “Where’s Jane?” _

* * *

“Talk to me, Garcia,” Emily answered on the first ring.

“Ok, I -” Penelope swallowed, tried to keep her heartbeat steady. “I called hospitals to see if Hotch had gotten himself admitted to an emergency room.”

“And?”

“He’s not listed as a patient, but someone dropped a John Doe off at a St. Sebastian Hospital,” She dry swallowed again. “And that person’s name was FBI Agent Derek Morgan.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Emily verbalized her thoughts exactly.

“I know, do you think they got their credentials mixed up?” Garcia asked, even as she knew that the both of them - and  _ especially  _ Hotch - were both far too vigilant to let that happen. 

There was silence on the other end of the line - silence that was exactly the kind of non-noise that occured when one of her babies made the kind of epiphany that they  _ really _ wished they hadn’t made.

“The Reaper,” Emily found her voice. “Foyet took Morgan’s creds.”

“Why would he drop him off at the ER?” Garcia asked with poorly disguised confusion. 

“Better question,” Emily corrected in her Grim Voice. “Where,  _ exactly _ , is Jane?”

* * *

“He was stabbed nine times, but no major arteries were hit,” The doctor was saying. “It’s a miracle he’s alive.”

Emily felt out of her depth. Hotch was unconscious and covered in bandages and machines were familiar but indecipherable. This was Jane’s department.

Jane - whose satchel, with her phone, was in her apartment but who was nowhere to be found. Jane, who she had no leads on finding, not even knowing if she even  _ was  _ in danger until Hotch confirmed that that second blood stain was hers. Jane who - Jane who should’ve been right here, going over Hotch’s chart and scowling at the lack of information.

“When will he wake up?” Emily asked, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.

“The anesthesia should wear off within the hour,” The doctor supplied. “But he’s bound to be out of it.”

The doctor left, and Emily’s phone rang.

“Prentiss,” She answered tiredly.

“How is he?” Garcia’s voice came through.

“Stable, but still out of it,” Emily answered, keeping her worry out of her tone. “Any luck finding Jane?”

“No, not yet,” Garcia sounded distressed enough for both of them. “Her apartment has nothing on the cams, and without her cell we can’t track her. No Jane Harts or … or Jane  _ Does _ have been checked into any hospitals for a hundred mile radius, and if she’s not at her apartment or Hotch’s …”

“We’ll find her, Garcia,” Emily assured her the best she could. “We’ll find her.”

* * *

_ Gunshot. _

“Reid?” Emily felt her heart plummet at the retort and the lack of reply. “Answer me.  _ Reid?” _

She calls dispatch and gets an ambulance and police sent to the Barton house, but she does it on autopilot. All she can think about is the line going dead and Hotch in that bed and Jane nowhere to be found and now Reid could be - could be  _ dead _ . 

_ Why  _ did all the people she cared about have to get  _ hurt? _

And there was nothing she could do but wait and hope, and it was killing her.

* * *

Reid winced as he continued to put pressure on his wound, cursing for the millionth time that Jane was MIA. As capable as Dr. Barton was, he prefered Jane over a stranger, any day.

But Jane was missing, and all they could hope was that the Reaper hadn’t gotten to her.

“You okay?” JJ asked, coming up on him with Morgan and Rossi close behind. “Is Jane here?”

“I’m fine,” He tried to brush it off, knowing a gunshot wound to his leg was nothing compared to Foyet’s knife. “Jane’s not here.”

“We’ll get you to a hospital,” Morgan nods, accepting the absence of Jane - not knowing just how bad that really was.

“You need to find Emily,” Reid told them, the Barton case done now. “Call Emily.”

“Where is she?” Rossi asked, beginning to pick up on the severity of the situation.

“Jane’s missing,” Reid gasps out through the pain. “And something’s happened to Hotch.”

* * *

Aaron woke up in pain, with a fog over his head like his head had been stuffed with pillow fluff.

Wait.

_ There was something missing. _

He forced his eyes open, vision blurry. Emily. Dave. Derek. Safe.

_ But where am I? _

“In the hospital,” Dave answered for him. Must’ve spoken out loud.

“How did I get here?”

His throat hurt.

_ Something was missing. Something was wrong. _

“Foyet drove you.”

Morgan.

_ Something was wrong. _

“Can you remember what happened?”

Emily.

_ ‘You should’ve made a deal.’ _

“What’d he take?”

_ Something was missing. _

“What do you mean?” Dave asked.

_ Something was missing. Something was missing. _

“He always takes something from his victims.”

The word feels heavy in his mouth. Heavier.

_ Something’s missing something’s missing something’s missing - _

“Do we know what he took?”

“There was a page missing from your day planner,” Emily answered. “In the address section, the Bs.”

_ Bad but not it Bad but not it. _

“What did he leave?” 

“I don’t know,” Emily answered.

“He also leaves something with his victims.”

The word is less heavy now. He’s profiling, he’s a  _ profiler _ .

And he needs to be because  _ something is missing. _

“Where are my clothes?”

They pass him his affects, pushing aside his blood stained shirt so he could get to the envelope of things inside. His fingers feel like they’re moving through mud but he needs to  _ find what’s missing. _

There’s a picture of Haley and Jack, with bloodied fingerprints on the surface -

And a single slash runs through the right side of Haley’s face, right down her cheek.

_ \- something’s missing something’s missing SOMETHING’S MISSING - _

“Haley’s maiden name was Brooks,” Hotch explains with half a mind, eyes locked on the cut. “I always listed her in the Bs …”

He trails off, but Rossi picks up where he left off.

“He knows where they live.”

But something was  _ still missing. _

This is why he hated being on drugs. 

The cut on Haley’s face.

Taking a page out of a day planner, even with his family on it, wouldn’t be enough would it?

Then it clicks, the cut -

_ Jane -! _

* * *

_ “You should have made a deal.” _

Foyet shot the wall. 

“ _ Is this part of my profile - you can’t show me fear?” _

_ “If you don’t see fear, maybe it’s because I’m not afraid of you.” _

Gun still aimed at his head.

_ “You say that as if you actually meant it. How’s my friend Agent Morgan?” _

He was messing with him.

_ “Are you here to kill me, or are you here to play games?” _

A shift.

_ “You tell me,” _ Foyet removed his mask, grinning.  _ “Or … you can tell  _ her.”

Gun still trained on him, stepping back into the next room. Hotch’s stomach dropping, dread building as Foyet reached down to pull up a limp figure.

_ Jane. _

“ _ She’s no fun asleep,”  _ Foyet switched his aim to her temple. “ _ But I had to get her here quietly. Luckily she carries all kinds of drugs in that bag of hers.” _

He drops her, limp, on the ground. She sprawls across the floor, boneless. Dead to the world - but still breathing. Still breathing. Aim shifts back to him.

“ _ So tell us. Enlighten your audience about my behavior.” _

They fought, Foyet had no one to defend but Hotch did. Foyet got the upper hand.

Hotch got a knife to the gut.

Taunts, and stabs, and taunts, and stabs. Over and over and _ over - _

But then he stopped.

“ _ Your Dr. Jane is a pretty little thing,” _ Foyet stepped over to her, tracing his knife along the front of her shirt. “ _ But she’s so scarred up. Ugly, scars are - I should know.” _

A sick laugh.

Hotch noticed for the first time the slashes running down the side of Jane’s trousers, exposing her legs. Legs covered in as many scars as her arms.

_ “The little prude’s always so covered up, I had to see for myself,” _ Foyet mocks. “ _ And I think I know why. See this?” _

He reached down with a bloodied hand, lifting up Jane’s camisole and exposing a red scar underneath, running across her stomach.

_ “Do you know how much you have to study the human body to stab yourself repeatedly and not die?” _

Foyet traced the scar with his knife, leaving a trail of Hotch’s blood across Jane’s skin.

_ “I don’t want to brag, but I’m somewhat of an expert,” _ Foyet bared his teeth. “ _ Which means that I know that little Janey had her uterus cut out, but only after it was butchered first - so sloppy.” _

Hotch felt rage - for Jane and at Foyet and at Them and at  _ everyone _ \- and it was almost enough to dull out the pain of him bleeding out.

_ “It’s too bad. I mean, what good is she to you if you can’t have her pop out lots of emotionless, stone faced babies for you? _ ” Foyet leered.  _ “Seems to me the only thing pretty left about her is her pretty face.” _

He raised his knife.

“ _ Let’s see how long that lasts.” _

* * *

“They’re safe,” Emily tells him once she gets off the phone.

A weight off his shoulders. Haley and Jack were safe, and now he just needed to make sure Jane was too.

“You were at my place, right?” Hotch asked raspily. “But Jane wasn’t?”

“So Jane _ was _ there,” Emily swallowed. “The second bloodstain was hers.”

“Foyet -” Hotch struggled to remember. “He … right as I was passing out, he told me that he was going to leave Jane there. For you to find. But she wasn’t?”

“Maybe Foyet lied,” Emily offered. “Or Jane got help for herself.”

“But you said Garcia couldn’t find anyone at nearby hospitals.”

“She’s a doctor, she could’ve treated herself.”

“But she would’ve  _ called us,” _ Hotch threw his head back into his pillow. “What if Foyet has her? He disappeared before, and with her drugged and injured he could’ve controlled her easily.”

“Foyet wants you both to suffer, and he likes to watch,” Emily reasoned. “You with your family, and Jane with … with not being able to help you. Help us. Chances are she’s at least aware, because Foyet doesn’t like torturing the unconscious - we know that with Morgan - and if she’s aware she’s smart enough to escape, or leave us a sign.”

“She can be as smart as she likes,” Hotch ground his jaw. “But if Foyet puts a knife in her it won’t matter.”

* * *

“I just talked to Spence, he’s gonna be fine,” JJ reported. “He’s gonna have to be on crutches for a while, but he said kicking down doors is Morgan’s job, anyway.”

Her attempt at humor fell flat in the tense atmosphere. Morgan only tensed further at the joke.

“You know, Foyet having your credentials had nothing to do with any of this,” Emily tried to reassure him. “It was just his way of trying to torture you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Morgan gritted out. “Foyet’s about power and control. He was hoping to watch me fall apart, and now he wants to destroy Hotch - and God knows what he’s doing to Jane.”

Emily was just about to answer when JJ’s phone went off, and the both of them watching as the Media Liaison answered it with a frown.

“This is Agent Jareau,” JJ answered, before her face did a somersault and she quickly put it on speaker.

“- admitted with a facial injury, bicep laceration, and signs of being drugged,” The professional voice on the other end of the line was saying. “Luckily someone dropped her off, and she had this number written in sharpie on her inner arm.”

“What condition was she in when she got dropped off? And who dropped her off?” JJ questioned the woman. “What was she wearing when she arrived? Her arm was exposed?”

“She was still pretty out of it due to the drugs,” The doctor - nurse? - replied to her flood of questions. “She walked in, confused, and no one saw who brought her here. She was wearing a white dress, a sundress, and was barefoot. Her arms and legs and her … her scars were exposed, and your number was written on the inside of her forearm.”

Emily swallowed roughly, not even knowing where to start profiling something like that.

“We’ll be right there.”

* * *

Dave led the way into the hospital - a clinic, really, not even large enough to have security cams on the entrance, unfortunately - with his non-hospitalized teammates close behind him.

“We’re here for-” He cut himself off, gathered himself through the irony. “We’re here for your Jane Doe.”

“Right this way,” The nurse they stopped lead them through the clinic’s single hall. “We’re flushing out her system right now - and she’s awake - but she’s still not fully lucid. And whatever happened before she came here: it affected her, badly.”

The nurse pushed aside a curtain, clearing way to a bed with their teammate and friend laying on it.

Jane looked like hell. She was curled in on herself, laying on her side in something close to the fetal position. Her arms were feebly wrapped around herself, and someone had thrown a blanket over her - adjusting it to expose her face and the IV running into her hand. She looked miserable and tired and as if she had all of her energy wrung out of her.

But she was there and she was  _ alive. _

“Hey, Jane,” Dave approached her slowly, carefully - the rest of the team hanging back to give her some space. “How’re you doing?”

“Where’s Aaron?” She asks instead of answering, face still buried - three straight cuts ran down her cheek from just under the bags of her eyes to her chin. Distinct but shallow, and perfectly parallel to each other. 

“Aaron’s at a different hospital, one we’re gonna transfer you to in a bit.” Dave told her gently, trying to coax her out. “But he’s okay, and he’s getting really good treatment. The doctors say that you have another injury, other than your face. What is it?”

Jane shrugged her upper shoulder weakly, and Dave reached over to gently pull back the blanket.

A line of stitches ran across her shoulder, amateurly done and clearly hours old. The thread was thick, wiry stuff and the ties were messy. The cut was placed where Jane couldn’t have stitched it up herself - and even if she could’ve she definitely would’ve done a better job than this, even drugged.

“With the drugs still in her system, and no positive ID, we decided to leave them in,” The nurse explained quietly. “They’re ugly but effective.”

“Someone stitched you up, Jane,” Morgan stepped to the other side of the bed. “Do you know who?”

Jane shook her head, curling tighter. 

“Can you tell us what happened?” Dave asked instead.

She took a deep breath.

“Came home,” She said. “Foyet was there. Came at me with a knife, cut me - arm.”

“And then?” JJ prompted gently.

“He hit me,” Jane began to shiver. “Got my bag - jabbed me with needle.”

“Propofol,” The nurse contributed.

“Woke up Aaron’s place,” Jane continued, not seeming to have heard the nurse. “Face hurt. Made it to door, went into hall. Dark out.”

“You’re doing great,” Morgan assured her, then continued, pressing gently. “And how did you make it here? You showed up in a dress, without your boots. Do you know where you got it?”

Jane was silent for a long time. Dave was just about to repeat the question when she spoke softly, still shivering.

“Felt someone behind me,” She curled up even tighter. “Thought could get help - find Aaron, call you. But I turned, a rag shoved in my face. Got dizzy. Another needle, then I was here. And it was light.”

She went silent after that. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, and it was clear the conversation was over.

The nurse ushered them away from their doctor, shutting the curtain with a sharp flick of her wrist.

“She’s gonna be out of it for a while longer,” The nurse explained briskly, no nonsense. “But with Propofol, the chance of her having any reliable memory of the events goes down significantly. Has she had poor memory recall when on medication before?”

“Yes, she has,” Morgan confirmed, exchanging glances with the rest of them. “After New York, she didn’t remember anything from when she was drugged up.”

“Then I can’t say that it is likely she will remember tonight's events,” The nurse sighed. “Which is bad for you, as she can’t help find whoever did  _ … this _ to her - but I would say good for her.”

“What do you mean?” Dave asked, forehead creasing.

“She’s a young woman with more scar tissue than I see on most burn victims,” The nurse stated bluntly. “And between that and her apparently being FBI, that means she’s stubborn as hell. Whatever happened between her waking up in that apartment and her walking in here was enough for her to devolve into  _ that. _ ” She nodded at the closed curtain behind her. “Do you really want her remembering it?”

Dave couldn’t form an answer.

* * *

Jane woke up alone.

And in a hospital.

And her face hurt.

Thankfully, she wasn’t in a hospital gown. Someone had put her in sweats and a tank top, with a sweater carefully folded on her side table. All black.

So her team knew she was here.

What happened?

Foyet. Foyet was in her apartment, then he attacked her -

And nothing.

_ Shit. _

She grabbed her chart from the foot of her bed, mindful of the twinge in her shoulder. She reached over and ran her fingers over smooth, even stitching as she read.

Oh, well. Could’ve been far worse.

She flipped the clipboard over, using its metallic sheen to check her face.

Three ugly - but relatively shallow - lines running down her right cheek. Foyet’s work, no doubt.

That’s what they made concealer for, right?

Or maybe foundation. That would probably be more effective.

No one was around her, and she never was one for staying put - especially if a cut or two was the biggest of her problems - so she carefully turned off the machines and removed the various lines and wires from her person. Quietly, she pulled on the sweater - size indicating it was probably Morgan’s - and a pair of boots that looked like her backup pair from her apartment. 

She waited for a lull in movement in the hallway, the clock indicating that it was 4:32. AM.

Damn, it was early.

A nurse’s station was left open, and she quickly filed her AMA form and discharged herself. Next, she checked the database.

Hotch  _ and _ Reid? Shit, what the hell happened?

Not wanting to risk getting caught, she left the station - grabbing a pen to write the room numbers down on her hand.

She also needed to get her gloves. Dammit.

She hit up Reid’s first, it was closest.

Spinner was asleep - luckily  _ asleep,  _ not unconscious - and his chart stated a gunshot wound to the leg. If he kept off of it - which was unlikely - his prognosis was good. Jane might lend him her cane, just to spread around all the teasing she had to endure when she needed one before. She still had it, right? Maybe.

She poked around his room, finding his things - his messenger bag, specifically. Going through the contents yielded nothing helpful but a pencil (which she promptly used as a pin to put her hair up) and a case file on a threat against a father and son. Irrelevant to her, now that the team had resolved the issue. Nothing on Foyet.

With one last glance over her fellow doctor, she put the room back as it was and slipped back out the door.

Hotch’s room was guarded, which was both relieving and irritating. But Jane just backtracked, slipping into a locker room she had passed on her way over. Going through a couple of lockers, she found some scrubs that would fit her and a white coat with  _ Dr. Kyle _ embroidered on the breast. A quick moment at the mirror to find a face mask and she was back on her way.

She made a big show of doing rounds, stopping at each room on the floor ‘just to check in.’ Most were asleep, and she made a show of checking over the charts of everyone who wasn’t.

(Room 412 needed a PET scan. She made a note.)

Then she reached Hotch’s.

“Excuse me, doctor,” One of the guards - hospital security, it looked like - stopped her. “You can’t go in there.”

“I need to check on this patient,” She tossed back. “He’s in need of constant supervision, his condition could change at a moment’s notice.”

They stared each other down, the two of them, until the other guard interrupted them.

“What’s with the mask?”   
“I have a sick daughter at home,” She explained dryly. “Just a cold, and my husband is taking care of her, but as a precaution I need to wear it when dealing with my more at-risk patients. It’s just procedure.”

They stared a bit more. The guards exchanged glances.

“Go ahead,” The first guard allowed. “He’s a federal agent. He deserves the best care.”

“And I’ll be sure to give it to him.”

* * *

“Did you seriously just bluff your way past hospital security by wearing a face mask?” A surprisingly aware Hotch asked her the moment the door was shut behind her. “Because if you were a con artist in another life, I feel like I deserve to know.”

“Who knows what I was,” Jane scoffed, picking up his chart. “You want to tell me what happened?”

And he did.

(She kinda wished he hadn’t.)

“What do you remember?” He asked as she carefully put his chart back, a having read it start to finish. “From that night.”

“Foyet was in my apartment,” Jane thought back. “He taunted me - about you - and then attacked me. Got to my bag and drugged me. And then I woke up here.”

“That’s all?” Aaron looked worried. “Jane, that was three days ago.”

Jane blinked, confused.

“What?”

That … it couldn’t have been, could it?

“They had to keep you sedated,” He explained, struggling to push himself up - she rushed forward to help him. “You were - you were in shock. Unresponsive.”

“I don’t remember anything,” She murmured, adjusting his pillows with practiced ease. “I - I don’t know what happened. How I got to that clinic.”

“It’s okay,” He smiled, trying to ease her worry. “It’s fine.”

“I can’t stay long, I’m pretending to be on my rounds,” She apologized, glancing back at the door. “I’ll see you soon.”

And she got up, and pretended for the guards that she wanted to get out as quickly as possible and home to a sick daughter - rather than stay and refuse to leave his side.

* * *

Her apartment had crime scene tape on the door.

Three days apparently wasn’t very long at all.

She ducked under it anyway, thankful that the door hadn’t been sealed, at least, and quickly grabbed her go bag and her satchel - snagging extra money on her way out.

Where to?

She ran through her options in her head. Hotch’s was out. JJ, Penny, and Dave would force her to go back to the hospital. Morgan and Emily would guilt her into telling the aforementioned, and the result would be the same. That left -

Oh. Reid was in the hospital. She could crash at his place.

A quick trip over on the metro, and she arrived at Reid’s just as the sun finally came up over the skyline.

She came up on his door and dipped into her satchel, pulling out her lock picks as she glanced around the empty hallway. No one was there, so she dropped to her knee and picked the lock.

‘ _ Take that, Turner _ .’ She thought.  _ ‘Living on the street _ is _ good for you.’ _

She pushed the door open, locking it behind her, and flipped propriety the bird as she collapsed on Reid’s couch, not even bothering to kick off her boots.

* * *

“Hotch, Jane’s gone!”

Aaron blinked, coming out of his stupor - thinking about Jack and Haley - as a worried Reid rolled his way into his hospital room in his wheelchair.

He could only blink at the baldfaced worry on the young genius’ face, thinking back to the early morning visit he had received.

“ _ Jane - _ ” He groaned, cursing the bandages on his arms preventing him from rubbing his temples in irritation. _ “What the hell?” _

* * *

Morgan came up on Reid’s apartment, pulling out the spare key that Pretty Boy had passed his way. He glanced at Emily, shrugged, and let himself right in.

They both stopped in the doorway.

“Hotch was right,” Morgan finally found his voice. “She did crash here.”

“Well, at least she isn’t kidnapped again,” Emily stated in almost-deadpan, trying and failing to keep the humor out of her voice.

Jane had collapsed on Reid’s couch, just like Hotch had guessed. At some point she had freed her arms from Morgan’s loaned sweater, and with her knees tucked up under the fabric and her head curled and hair a mess she… well, she looked more like a woolen tomato with a curly brown stalk than their intimidating, stoic doctor. 

“Lets …” Morgan just sighed, out of his depth. “Just, grab her stuff. I’ll get her.”

And he scooped her up like a beach ball, following Prentiss out of the apartment.

* * *

Jane woke up to the movement of a car, tucked up under someone’s arm.

She inhaled, smelled woodsmoke and musk, and a hint of sweat. Her ear was against a firm chest, the thumping of it familiar - if only usually felt through her fingers.

She counted. Measured.

Morgan. It was Morgan.

“Hey,” He squeezed her gently, “You up?”

“Yeah,” She slurred, allowing herself the indulgence of burrowing deeper into his warmth. “Where’re we going?”

“To Rossi’s,” Morgan assured her. “Don’t worry, we both know that us sending you back to the hospital would be useless, you damn hypocrite. Rossi’s gonna put you up till you can get your apartment back.”

“Who’s driving?” She asked, not wanting to open her eyes.

“Emily is,” Prentiss called from in front of them. “We both went to get you from Reid’s - how did you even get it?”

“Lock picks.”

LeFay’s rumbling laugh bounced around his chest, and the comfort of it - the safety - sent Jane back under.


	25. 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jane woke, it was to the sound of cooking.

When Jane woke, it was to the sound of cooking.

At first she thought it was another dream, and she almost reached for her notebook … but it wasn’t familiar. Not even in that distant, echo of a way.

She opened her eyes.

She was in Rossi’s too-nice, too-big house – his too-big, too-nice living room. She’d refused any of his guest bedrooms, and had just curled up on one of his squashy couches to sleep, the night before.

Someone had removed her boots. And her jacket.

She lay there for a moment longer, twisting her torso to look at the ceiling, studying the distinct lack of water stains. As she became more aware, more sounds filtered in from Rossi’s kitchen.

“- Spence is going to be out in a couple days,” JJ was telling …  _ someone _ . “Hotch is gonna need another week or two. And  _ Jane  _ …”

“Janey-dear broke out of the hospital a couple nights ago and is now sleeping on my couch,” Rossi replied, tone sardonic. “That ship has sailed.”

The sound of cooking continued. Plates clinked, food sizled. 

She gauged the light – late morning or midday, she’d bet. Brunch, then.

“I’m just glad that after … well, after everything, that Strauss gave us some time off,” JJ sighed. “I know that we were supposed to have some anyway – I even told Will, he was so excited – but …”

“But two of our own are in the hospital and the last is pretending to be asleep on my couch.”

Jane sat up suddenly, glaring over the back of her temporary cot.

“Pretending nothing, Davey-dear,” Jane threw back at him. “The fuck you cooking?”

“Brunch for the mere mortals,” He replied, his back to her at the stove – JJ left staring wide-eyed at her. “Spaghett for the grumpy avatar of Hygeia.”

“Good,” She grumbled, spotting her boots and jacket at the end of the couch. “I hate brunch.”

Then she paused, fingers stilling at her laces.

“Wait – did you just call me an  _ avatar  _ of the  _ goddess of cleanliness?” _

* * *

Jane visited Reid with a pile of books from the multi-volumed  _ Tax Fraud: A History _ to placate her fellow doctor. Spinner was unimpressed, but she could see his fingers twitching to open them anyway.

“What?” She finally asked after checking him over, fed up with getting the silent treatment. “I’m sorry for crashing in your apartment, okay?”

“You think  _ that’s _ what this is about?” He snapped, disbelieving. “Wow, no. Jane, I wouldn’t have cared if you  _ trashed  _ the place.”

“Then what?” She threw her hands in the air. “What did I do?”

“You went missing,” He growled, showing real anger and – and fear. “Jane, when we didn’t know where you and Hotch were … when we found Hotch  _ dying _ and you were nowhere to be found – ”

Her stomach sank. She swallowed roughly, clearing her throat through the rush of unfamiliar emotions, “I must’ve scared you.”

She cleared her throat again.

“Okay, so what do I do?” She asked, pulling herself together - pushing the unwelcome emotions back. “What do I do to make it up to you? I’ll do it.”

A flash of mischief flit through the genius’s eyes, and Jane realized she’d been played. Played with genuine emotion, yes, but still played like a fool.

“Morgan set you up to this?” She guessed, wincing at Spinner’s blinding smile of a reply. “See if I do anything for you now.”

“Too late, you’re a woman of your word,” Spinner grinned. “I want to know the story.”

She blinked at him, thinking back on what he could’ve possibly meant - she came up empty.

“What story?” 

“The story behind why you call me ‘Spinner’,” He replied, leaning forward on his hospital bed. “You never told me why.”

Well, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. She thought he was going to demand less time off despite his damn leg – which wasn’t going to happen, woman of her word or not.

“Do you remember – ” She settled in the hospital chair more comfortably, thinking back. “ – when we first met?”

“Yeah,” Reid snorted, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “It was my first day as a BAU Agent, I was so nervous.”

“You were, gosh – ” Jane smirked “ – You were maybe thirty pounds lighter, and dressed like a college professor. It was before Penny and Jayje intervened on fashion's behalf.”

“I wasn’t  _ that _ bad,” He protested halfheartedly. (They both knew he was.)

“Anyway, the first time you met me I was having a very bad week,” She continued the story, scoffing. “And I wasn’t really having the whole ‘we’re bringing in a trouble magnet for you to take care of, don’t let him die’ thing that Jay had going on. So I planned to avoid you until I couldn’t any longer.”

“I forgot how distant you were back then,” Spinner nodded, a frown tugging briefly at his lips. “You barely talked.”

“You talked enough for both of us,” She snorted, dismissing his melancholy. “That’s why I call you ‘Spinner’?”

“Wh- because I talk a lot?” Reid asked, disgruntled. “That’s it?”

“Were you hoping for some dramatic backstory?” She shrugged. “Spinner, you have a way with words … you can take a moment, a topic, and just –  _ spin. _ ”

She saw he still wasn’t getting it.

“You …” She tugged at her ear. “You’re a storyteller, Reid. A magician, a profiler. You take what you know – which isn’t some small sum – and you  _ use _ it. And you spin situations to your advantage, people to your side. And sometimes, yeah, you spin yourself off topic, and have to pull yourself back – but it’s all to your gain. You’re a  _ spinner, _ and the fact that it’s alphabetically similar to ‘Spencer’ is really just coincidence.”

Spencer –  _ Spinner _ – just blinked at her in shock for a moment, face surprised.

Probably because the last time she talked that much … she didn’t even know. And certainly not about ‘feelings’.

Gah. She needed a shower.

_ “Now,” _ Spinner blinked himself out of his stupor, finding his voice with a grin. “You’re off the hook.”

“Good,” She exhaled, falling back into herself. “I hate talking.”

* * *

Hotch was asleep when she got there.

She stared at him, tried to find the courage to do … 

She didn’t even know.

She checked his chart. Made some notes. Gathered her things.

She left him her mp3, set right on his bedside table.

She didn’t know what else to do.

When she left the hospital, she was just about to – 

She didn’t even know.

She just started walking, continuing down the street through the dropping temperatures. She passed libraries and restaurants, stores and – 

Oh. That was something.

* * *

“Hey, Baby Girl,” Morgan finally gave up, calling. “I hate to ask you to do this -”

“Oh, that’s a way to start a sentence, Chocolate Thunder,” She replied over the line, and he put it on speaker phone for Rossi and Emily. “What can I do? If it has anything to do with -”

_ “You’re on speaker,” _ Emily swiftly nips that in the bud. “Hey, Garcia.”

“Oh. Hi.”  Garcia lost her steam. “Emily. Hello.”

“Sorry, Baby Girl,” Morgan grimaced. “Wasn’t thinking.”

“Now there’s a first,” She regained her footing. “What’s going on?”

“We can’t find Jane,  _ again,” _ Rossi growled, ignoring Garcia’s ‘oh, hi Sir’. “She texted Morgan saying she was okay, and going out to clear her head, but she hasn’t responded to any calls or texts since.”

“Okay, I’m at my home computer,” Garcia nodded, her sound shifting as she went to speaker. “But this is going to be less fast – and less legal – if we do it this the safe way.”   
“That’s fine, Baby Girl,” Morgan sighed again, irritated that it came to this. “We just need to find her. Cover your tracks and we’ll be fine.”

“Ohhhh-kay,” Garcia said after a minute. “Janey’s at – oh.”

“What is it?” Emily asked, exchanging glances. “Garcia, what is it?”

“Sorry, I just had to double check,” She came back. “Jane’s at the corner of – well, she’s right where a very high end club is at.  _ The Final Whisper.” _

Rossi closed his eyes, head tilted back as if in prayer. Fed up, in a word or two.

“It is never simple with her, is it?” Emily asked rhetorically, just as done. “Okay, looks like Morgan and I are going after our little Hippocratic Hypocrite.”

* * *

She was drunk.

She was very very drunk.

_ Finally. _

Lu was next to her, writhing with the music – her hands and her drink in the air. Connie was all over her, one hand up the back of Lu’s shirt and the other clasped around Jane’s neck, foreheads together as they bounced to the beat of the DJ’s mix.

Everything was melting away. After days and days and  _ days - _

Finally, with a shot or five of courage, she was okay.

Then someone grabbed her from behind.

She immediately whipped around, lashing out at the hand on her shoulder – nails coming down in a slash. She caught only a hint of fabric before clawing down someone’s arm –

_ LeFay’s _ arm.

“Th’  _ fuck’re _ yu doin’ere?” She slurred at him, holding out a hand before Lu went all ‘Mama-Cop-Bear’ on him. “You’re sp’sed to be - be somewh’re, n’t  _ ‘ere.” _

“You’re drunk,” Morgan spoke slowly, as if she was too drunk to hear or something. “You’re coming home with me and Emily.”

Oh, Emily was there. That was nice.

“Jane’s not going  _ anywhere  _ with you,” Lu cut in, taller and bigger than her – and therefore a lot more sober. “Back off.”

Emily pulled her creds –  right in the middle of the dance floor! – and nodded for LeFay to do the same. “We’re her friends, and we just want her safe,” Emily tried to placate.

Lu pulled the creds from LeFay’s fingers, and Jane realized just how uninterested she was in with whatever they were saying when she saw how  _ pretty _ Prentiss looked.

“Emily!” She cried, throwing her arms around the taller woman’s neck. “O’m’gsh, we should  _ dance. _ An’  _ drink!” _

Emily just smiled, pulling Jane’s arms off her neck and down to wrap around her waist.

“How about we go get Penny?” Emily offered, smile wide. “And then we can get Jayje, too – and have a girls night.”

Jane was just beginning to think that over when Lu and Connie came up.

“Jane, you gotta go home,” Lu frowned at her, stern. “Girl, you shoulda told us you were running from a serial killer.”

“Nah,” She shook her head forcefully against Emily’s side, swiping a hand across her face. “Y’wouldn’t’ve let m’come out.”

Connie smiled, ruffling Jane’s pony tail and she and Lu melted into the crowd, leaving Jane with her family.

“You need to stop running off,” Morgan articulated clearly, nodding to the exit as Emily - bracing Jane against her side with firm hands - followed him. “You’re gonna get  _ hurt. _ ”

“Didn’t git hur yet,” She muttered, glad she was still wrapped around Emily.

_ “Yet,” _ Emily stressed, her fingers spasming against her shoulder. _ “Yet.” _

* * *

Rossi rushed to the door when his bell went off, and he forced himself to slow to a walk once he reached the foyer.

He opened the door to an odd sight.

Jane was propped up between Emily and Morgan, each of her arms wrapped as far as they would go around their waists. She smiled up sunnily at him, an expression he had  _ never _ seen on her face, as her gaze wandered around to who-knows-where.

“Just how drunk is she?”

“Very,” Emily smiled tightly, an arm around Jane’s waist, fingers fisted in a silky maroon club top. “I will never allow her to live this down.”

“I still can’t believe she would do this – do this  _ again,” _ Morgan growled as Dave stepped aside for them to enter. “She said she wouldn’t run off.”

“Don’t blame her completely,” Rossi scolded gently, crouching to remove Jane’s painful looking wedges. “Whatever happened before – whatever happened after she got out of Hotch’s apartment – messed her up. And even though she can’t remember it, she’s still trying to  _ deal _ with it.”

“So you’re saying that her rash decisions –” Emily extricated herself from Jane’s grip “– is just her way of trying to deal with what happened?”

“Most likely.”

“Damn,” Morgan shook his head, scooping a giggling Jane up in a fireman’s carry and dropping her without fanfare back onto Rossi’s couch. “You –” He pointed a finger at her, trying for stern and falling short. “ – need better coping mechanisms.”

She just kept giggling.

* * *

“I just got notified,” Jane ended her phone call, gathering her satchel and the meager pile of clothes she had – sorting out the ones she borrowed from JJ. “My apartment is open for me again.”

“Hold up a moment,” Rossi stopped her. “You’re not going back there.”

Jane stopped and stared at him. “Rossi, it’s my apartment. I  _ live  _ there.”

“But it’s not safe,” He insisted, pressing. “You shouldn’t go back to somewhere that Foyet knows you’ve been – and the security there is a nightmare.”

“So you mean to tell me that after Aaron gets released that he’s not going to go -” She cut herself off, rocking back. “This isn’t your idea.”

“No, I don’t want you going back to that health and safety nightmare either,” Rossi corrected her. “But no, I wasn’t the driving force.”

“Aaron’s being paranoid,” Jane sighed, dropping her satchel. “How bad is it?”

“He’s always checking up on you,” Dave relented, dropping into an armchair. “He’s worried, Jane. He saw you in Foyet’s grasp, and then you were gone for  _ hours. _ He was terrified for you.”

“I just –” She cut herself off, trying to find the words. “I don’t need anybody.”

“You mean: you’ve never  _ had _ anybody,” The older man corrects gently. “You don’t know how to deal with it, and that’s okay. But it’s  _ not  _ okay that you won’t let us help you.”

Jane relented.

“So where am I gonna  _ go?” _ Jane asked dryly, kicking at the pile of clothes on the ground. “Because Dave, I am  _ not _ staying with you till one of us kicks the bucket.”

“Don’t worry,” He just smiled. “We’ll figure something out.”

* * *

“Morgan, what the hell are we doing here?” Jane cocked an eyebrow, gazing around one of his restored properties that he had dragged her to. It was an older craftsman, on the smaller side, and was perhaps a 20 mile drive from her old apartment - far enough away to be in one of the nicer neighborhoods. By a good margin.

Pretty, but she had no idea why she was here.

“Just come and see it,” Morgan non-answered, nodding for her and Penny – who was attached to her arm like a limpet – to follow him in.

Spartanly decorated, reasonable floor plan. 2.5 baths and 3 bedrooms. Huge, but small. Tasteful.

Was Penny looking to buy or something?

She paused at the foyer, the 10-cent tour coming to a close. She tuned out Morgan’s enthusiastic tale of his restoration of …  _ something _ and stopped to look at the state of the art security system installed in the wall.

Realization hit.

“You want me to move in here.”

Morgan went silent and Penny – who still hadn’t detached herself from Jane’s side – picked up the slack.

“We’re all worried, sweetums,” The Technical Analyst tries to soothe her. “When we saw what kind of security your apartment had … well, we didn’t like it.”

She glared at them.

“I can get you a reasonable price, one that won’t make you feel like it’s charity,” Morgan stepped in, cutting to the core of the issue. “This security system is the best on the market, and Hotch is getting the same installed in his apartment. You’ll be safe here – we won’t have to worry, and nor will you.”

Jane sighed, looking at the honest concern in her colleagues' eyes. 

She knew she lived in a shithole. God, she paid so little it was no wonder. But after so long working just to pay off her debt to Them –

Well, maybe she forgot that she could spend some money, here and there. She’d certainly accumulated enough.

“Fine, but no one but Penny and Rin know the codes,” She acquiesced finally, ignoring Garcia’s immediate squeal. “And so help me LeFay, if you lose money cuz you’re selling to a friend I will  _ skin you.” _

* * *

Jane was packing her things into three cardboard boxes. 

Just three. Her life was the contents of three little boxes.

It was more than she expected. Before, she always thought of her things as the contents of her satchel and the clothes in her rucksack, and even that felt forigen.

Guess she’d accumulated more, over the last six years.

She was just dropping the last of Garcia’s overcolored gifts into the final box when she heard the knocking at the door.

“You should’ve asked who it was,” Aaron’s first words came when she opened the door, frowning. “I could’ve been anyone.”

“Like Foyet?” Jane deadpans, leaving the door open for him to follow. “I’m donating the rest of the furniture later today, so enjoy the squeaky-couch while it lasts.”

She heard him sit down heavily – heralded by the creak of old metal – and left him to catch his breath with a trace of dignity as she folded the flaps of the boxes, trying to shove them into the overlapping state that she never could get right on the first try.

By the time she’s got them all shut – resolving to buy tape next time – he’s pulled himself together.

“You stopped visiting,” He speaks softly, and Jane closed her eyes, cursing silently. 

Damnnit, Rossi.

“They wouldn’t let me,” She got out, voice strangled. “I wanted to -”

“But they wouldn’t let you,” He repeated hollowly. “I just … I wanted to know you were safe.”

“You could’ve called me,” She deadpanned, pulling a sharpie from her satchel. “I always answer when you call.”

The only sound in the apartment was the squeak of marker on cardboard.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Well, which is it, then?” She whipped around to face him, throwing the marker on the counter and crossing her arms. “Because honestly? You can’t seem to make up your damn mind.”

Goddamnnit he looked  _ taken aback.  _ The  _ asshole. _

“Look, you big baby,” She strode forward to jab a finger in his chest. “ _ You _ need to get over yourself.”

He just blinked.

“This –” She waved her hand around her bare apartment “ – is because of you.  _ You  _ said my apartment wasn’t safe,  _ you _ said that I needed a new place. You said ‘jump’ and I said ‘okay, Rin, how high you want that?’ and played along because this is what  _ you _ needed. Not what I wanted.”

“Foyet knows where you live –” 

“Yeah, I know he does!” She exclaimed, crossing her arms again furiously. “And he’s a computer genius. He’s going to find me again, Aaron. He’s probably got eyes on both of us 24/7 – but  _ you _ are  _ staying  _ in your apartment. I’m not. And that was because I  _ let _ you decide  _ for  _ me.”

Hotch went silent and still.

“But the thing is,” She took the harshness out of her voice. “Is that you seem to have forgotten that I deal with things best by ignoring them. I was just gonna live in the same apartment I got attacked in because I wasn’t going to let it get me, just like you aren’t letting Foyet get you. So the extra security measures? The sudden move? It’s not making me ‘not worry,’ Aaron. It’s making it so I can’t  _ forget _ about it. And that’s as good as worrying, for me.”

“I’m sorry,” He massaged his temples, eyes clenched shut. “But –”

“But I need the security measures,” She supplies for him, relaxing her stance. “And that’s why I’m playing along. I know I need them, just as much as you do. But I’m sorry, Aaron, you can’t try and keep me from worrying - it’s just gonna backfire.”

“I know,” He sighed, his jaw flexing. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” She mustered a smile for him. “Just – stop trying to keep things from me, okay?”

She reached out, the first time since he got hospitalized, and gripped his wrist in her hand. Counted his heartbeats. 

And with a deep breath, he unclenched his free hand and rested two careful fingers on her wrist, right over her pulse point.

* * *

“He's not in yet.”

Morgan paused in his path, backing up to Rossi’s open door.

“What?”

“You’ve been walking past Hotch’s office for an hour,” Rossi twisted a pen between his fingers. “Jane’s picking him up.”

“Hotch told me she cleared him to drive,” Morgan stepped into the office further.

“She did,” Rossi nodded. “Jane wanted to do it.”

Morgan tried to keep his jaw from tensing at that, but he saw Rossi’s eyes go straight to his chin. After his twitch, Dave clearly geared up into profiling mode. “What’s going on?”

No use beating around the bush, apparently. Derek crossed to a chair, sitting down for the long talk that was inevitably going to happen.

“He’s only had a month off, Rossi.”

“Technically, 34 days,” The older profiler tilted an eyebrow.

“And you think that’s long enough?”

“You don’t? Tell him.”

Morgan snorted, holding up his hands in surrender.

“No, thanks, I like my job.” He shook his head.

“You like him more,” Rossi pointed out.

The office went silent.

“I think the number of days isn’t what’s really on your mind,” Rossi told him, sharp as ever. “What’s really going on?”

“It’s -” Derek tried to find the right words. “Almost everything is expected. He’s gone hypervigilant, he’s pretending everything is normal – hell, the only reason I think he got past his evaluations is because we  _ wrote _ those questions. But him and Jane …”

“You’re worried about, what, a budding romance?” Dave joked.

“No, I’m worried about codependency – or just plain dependency,” Morgan grit his jaw. “Jane visits all the time, and Hotch calls in to check on her four or five times a day. When he’s not profiling Foyet, he’s hovering around her.”

“They went through a traumatic experience together,” Rossi sat forward. “And even if Jane doesn’t remember most of it, Hotch does. Haley and Jack are gone – he can’t help them – but he  _ does _ have Jane.”

“And, what, we let this go on?” Morgan asked,  _ really _ asked. “Because if one of them gets threatened in the field again – if  _ Jane _ gets threatened – then how is he gonna react?”

Rossi didn’t have an answer for him.

* * *

“Thanks,” Reid smiled at Garcia, settling into one of her spare office chairs. 

“Does it hurt?”

“It only really hurts when I think about it – which is pretty much all the time,” He joked. “But Jane says that if I keep off of it, I’ll be switching these bad boys – ” He gestured to his crutches “ – out for a cane in no time.”

“How is she?” Garcia asked, batting his hands away from a box of very delicious looking cookies, passing him a sucker instead. “Like, really, how is she?”

“Confused,” He found the right word after a moment, sticking the cherry candy into his mouth. “Hotch was there, getting stabbed, as she was drugged on the floor. She only has memories of her apartment being broken into, and he has three days worth of worry and overall trauma.”

“So she doesn’t get why he’s so freaked out?” Garcia asked, shuffling her babules nervously. “So  _ protective _ . I mean, he basically  _ made  _ her move.”

Reid gives her a look, betraying how much he knew about her involvement with that whole thing. She primmly ignores it.

“No, she gets it,” He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “But she doesn’t get how it's manifesting.”

“Manifesting ho-”

“Spence, there you are,” JJ interrupted them. “Grab your go bag.”

* * *

Aaron was just clipping his gun to his belt when he heard a knock.

Half an ear on the news from Louisville, he made his way to the door, checking the peephole before letting out a sigh of relief.

“Jane,” He greeted his friend with a small smile she returned. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” She stepped in, scanning his place. “You ready to go?”

“I will be,” He double checked his go bag. “You made it here alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Her cheeks twitched into a smile. She held out her hand.

Something loosened in him, familiar habits.

He extended his wrist, and her fingers found his pulse point. And once she got settled … pushing the part of him that was embarrassed aside, he brought over his second hand to feel for her pulse as well, steadying himself against her increasingly-familiar beat.

He counted beats before she finished, but didn’t have the experience to put them into context. It steadied him all the same.

She smiled at him, a little longer. He gathered his things. She crossed the room to punch in his code, glancing over her shoulder at him just before she hit ‘enter.’

“Ready,” He confirmed, shoulders back.

And they walked out the door.

* * *

Jane was crouched over the blood pool of the first victim, the stock boy, when she heard Hotch get agitated.

“And when were you gonna tell us this?” Hotch snaps at the pharmacist. “He's armed, he's delusional – who’s his doctor?”

Jane stood up quickly, making her way around the bloodstains to where the Unit Chief was staring down a flustered and upset woman.

She tugged up her sleeve and slipped her wrist into Hotch’s hand, his fingers curling around it in an automatic reflex. She saw him take a steadying breath.

“Great,” He breathed in – cutting over the pharmacist – and then out again. “Great.”

Then he released her wrist, pulling out his phone and walking away – Morgan following after, leaving her with the confused pharmacist to reassure.

* * *

“A minivan was stolen one block from here,” Lieutenant Mitchell came up to them. “Call's never driven in his life – you think he's still not running from us?”

“Which way?” Rossi asked instead of answering.

“Eastbound. I got roadblocks set up everywhere.” Mitchell frown deepened. “He's not getting out of this county.”

“You're wasting your time,” Hotch declared, standing stock still as they walked away. 

“He's outnumbered,” Mitchell spread his hands, fed up. “You think he's gonna just disappear?”

“I think he took the boy for a reason,” Hotch pressed.

“I don't care why he took him,” Mitchell came back at him.

“You should,” Hotch stepped up to meet him. “Call’s memory is no longer suppressed, he’s reinventing his past.” Jane’s face flashed in his mind’s eye. “He’s reinventing his past, and unless we understand how – we’re not gonna find either of them.”

“Well, I’m not gonna just sit around and speculate.”

“Then don’t.”

Rossi backed him up, even though Hotch could see he didn’t agree. Mitchell walked away.

“There’s a kid missing,” Emily lowered her voice, approaching him.

“They don’t need the extra manpower,” Hotch defended himself, scanning the crowd for Jane – she was next to Morgan, and her gun was on her belt.

“Since when?”

“If we'd studied Foyet's initial crimes, we would have known that a survivor didn't make sense,” Hotch insisted.

“What does he have to do with this?” Emily asked, voice practiced and patient.

“All we had to do was stop and look at Foyet's history, and we didn't,” He lamented. “And we lost two couples and a bus full of people. And I'm not making that mistake again.”

He walked back toward their SUVs, but not before he checked that Jane was still with Morgan, still safe.

* * *

“You ran into that building.”

Hotch tensed, then relaxed as Jane stepped into his office. His fingers itched to feel her pulse, to have proof that she was fine, but he held back.

_ (Oh, so  _ that’s  _ how Jane always felt.) _

“I saved that kid.”

“Yeah, and put yourself at risk,” Jane shook her head, hands flexing against her biceps. “You –  _ we _ – need to stop this.”

“Stop what?” He dared to ask, not able to look at her.

“You’re picking up my mannerisms,” Jane states bluntly, fingers digging into her arms. “You’re checking pulses, being hypervigilant with location and health, reckless with yourself, overly cautious with others, distrustful and dismissive of all not within your inner circle – and it’s all centered around me.”

“Jane -”

“So we’re going to have to stop,” She cuts him off, forcing the both of them into eye contact. “Because Morgan being a little distrustful is the least of our worries. Because my coping mechanisms are unhealthy and the only reason they’ve never gotten in the way of my work is because I developed them  _ with _ my work. You have had no such luxury, and it’s screwing us over.”

Hotch knew she was right.

“So, what?” He asked, dread twisting his stomach. “I stop taking your pulse, you stop letting me?”

“So, I stop coming around for dinner,” She stated shakily, before firming up. “Morgan’s concerned about codependency, I don’t have to be a profiler to know that. Hotch, we’re  _ inseparable _ , and at some point that is going to affect both of our judgements.”

“So we distance ourselves,” He concludes hollowly. “I develop healthier habits, and you stop letting me depend on you.”

“Yeah,” She replied, just as hollowly. “Yeah.”

She left his office.

The sound of the door shutting behind her echoed like a cannon shot.

* * *

“He’s going to end up like me.”

Rossi paused as he exited his office, turning to see Jane sat beside his doorway – sitting in the dark hallway and twisting a bright pink bowler hat between her fingers.

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” He goes with, forcing his protesting knees to lower himself next to her.

“It is if you really know what I’m like, what I’m  _ really  _ like,” Jane counters dryly, eyes locked on the fluorescent felt. “I scare myself sometimes. When I realize just how much I’m like the people you chase.”

“ _ We _ chase,” He corrects. “And I scare myself sometimes, too.”

They sit in silence. The janitor passes by to empty the bullpen’s trash bins.

“I think you did the right thing,” Rossi finally says. “You don’t think so, but Hotch knows it’s right, too. You can’t afford to hurt the team, or each other.”

“I know it was right,” Jane thumps her head back against the wall. “But why does it still feel wrong?”

“Because you love him,” Rossi states bluntly, quirking a smile at the face she pulled. “Platonically or not, you love him. And it’s hard to let go of the people you love.”

“If you tell me to ‘let him go’ if I love him,” Jane warns, a note of warning creeping into her voice. “Then maybe I should give you a reason to use a couple weeks worth of those sick days you’ve accumulated.”

“No need to get aggressive,” He defended lightly, pushing himself off the floor. “But Jane.”

He waited until she reluctantly made eye-contact with him.

“It’s going to be okay.”

“I know,” Jane sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> 22 - Pre-Series  
> 04 - 1x16  
> 03 - 1x22  
> 01 - 2x12  
> 06 - 2x13  
> 02 - 2x10  
> 05 - 2x10  
> 09 - 2x15  
> 08 - 2x21  
> 10 - 3x2  
> 11 - 3x6  
> 07 - NEC  
> 12 - 3x19  
> 13 - 3x20 - 4x3  
> 17 - 4x6  
> 23 - 4x18  
> 16 - 4x25  
> 24 - 5x01  
> 25 - 5x02  
> 18-20 - 5x13.5  
> 21 - 5x14  
> 15 - 7x4


End file.
